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Albertype, 

E. HIEH3TA0T, NEW YORK 



A WOMAN 


IN THE CASE. 

y 

By Miss Bessie Turner. 


“ I do but beg a little changeling boy.” — Shaksfeeare. 






NEW YORK: 

G. W. Carleton &• Co., Publishers . 

LONDON : LOW, SON & CO. 

MDCCCLXXV. 






\ ' 

* 


Copyright, 1875, by 

G. W. CARLETON & CO. 


John F. Trow & Son, 

PRINTERS AND STEREOTYPERS, 
205-213 East i2 th St., 
NEW YORK. 


PREFACE. 


Some books are written to sell ; others to illustrate 
a principle. I shall have attained both objects, if 
this little work meets with popular favor. I believe 
in individual freedom of writing and buying. I have 
written for my own pleasure and profit. If the public 
purchase for the same reasons, both parties will be 
satisfied. My story is founded on fact, but I think 
it will be conceded that it is “ stranger than fiction.” 
If curious people expect to find anything in it bear- 
ing directly or indirectly on the great “ trial,” in the 
elucidation of which I was necessarily made a witness, 
I am happy to know they will be disappointed. It 
may, however, be some consolation for them to learn 
that had it not been for that misfortune, it would be 
possible for me to earn an honest living in a less 
public way than this. As it is, I have chosen a path 
which I hope will lead to profit and favor. 


New York, October , 1875. 


B. T. 




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« 


CONTENTS 




CHAPTER I. 

The Russells 9 

CHAPTER II. 

A Woman in the Case 16 

CHAPTER III. 

He Asks. She Answers 22 

CHAPTER IV. 

Ten Years Later. A Summons. 27 

CHAPTER V. 

The Boy ! Oh Where Was He ? 31 

CHAPTER VI. 

Short and Bitter 36 

CHAPTER VII. 

Love Melteth Even Pride 37 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Till Death Doth Them Part .*.... 43 

CHAPTER IX. 

Twenty Years After 47 

CHAPTER X. 

He and She 53 

CHAPTER XI. 

Some Strange Developments 58 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Snake in the Grass jx. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Terrible Temptation 80 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Fire ! Fire ! Fire ! 86 

CHAPTER XV. 

Trouble in the Household 92 

CHAPTER XVI. 

What Next? The Programme 102 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Scene Shifts. The Tempter at Work 107 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Templeton’s Story 113 


8 


CONTENTS . 


CHAPTER XIX. 

One-Eyed Charley at Home 123 

CHAPTER XX. 

She Waited Patiently 126 

CHAPTER XXI. 

John Hardy’s Story. A Sudden Stop 131 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Miller and his Man 143 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Robert Delaney, Clergyman, appears 153 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Miller Goes to Church. A Toe for a Toe 159 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Maud Russell as Florence Nightingale 173 

[CHAPTER XXVI. 

On the Track at Last 183 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Bill, Bob, and Harry 1S8 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The Snake and Mary Miller 198 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

On the Rocks 204 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Miller does some Talking 216 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Beware, Poor Girl, Beware * 22^ 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Forewarned, Forearmed 231 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Two Playing at the Same Game 236 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A Soft Answer Turns Away Wrath. 247 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Surprisers Surprised 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Walking Down Broadway 258 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Joha and Maud #. [ 269 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

At Last, at Last 274 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

There’s no Place Like Home 287 



A WOMAN 

IN' THE CASE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RUSSELLS. 

TELL you, mother dear, I love her with 
all my heart, and marry her I will.” So 
spoke Horace Russell, as, with his arm 
about his mother’s neck, he looked at the retreating 
form of Jenny Marvin, his sweetheart and intended 
bride. 

Born in a manufacturing village of England, and 
reared in the immense establishment of which his 
father was the founder and proprietor, Horace Rus- 
sell was as fine a specimen of the better grade of the 
English middle class as one would care to see. He 
had barely turned his twenty- third year, stood six feet 
in his stockings, carried himself with the air of a hun- 






IO 


THE RUSSELLS. 


ter, and was noted, at all the fairs, as the best jumper 
wrestler, boater and marksman in the county. His 
early years had been spent in acquiring the ruder 
elements of education ; but his head was bent on 
mechanics, and his delight was to go to the factory, 
watch the machinery, learn of the men the why and 
the wherefore, and perfect himself in all that pertained 
to his father’s affairs. At the age of eighteen, at the 
urgent request of Horace, Mr. Russell, senior, put him 
at work, and on his twenty-first birthday the young 
man was hailed as foreman of the works. 

The Russell family was of humble origin, self re- 
specting, frugal, and well-to-do. Joseph Russell came 
of virtuous stock, and looked upon merry-making as a 
sin. Nevertheless, he married young, and, at the 
period of which we write, was the contented husband 
of a devoted wife, and the happy father of two sons, 
Horace and Harry, the latter a cripple. In the fac- 
tory and at home the will of Joseph Russell was law. 
The wife, as good a soul as ever breathed, trembled at 
the least exhibition of impatience by Horace, who 
had a high temper, and shrank with apprehension at 
every elevation of tone, lest it might be the beginning 
of an unknown end to be avoided and dreaded. 
Harry was a cripple from his birth ; he was intelli- 
gent, quick-witted, sagacious and kind. Books were 
his refuge, and study his delight. Between the ten- 
der-hearted mother, the sturdy Horace and the pale- 


THE RUSS ELLS. 


ii 


featured Harry, were bonds of sympathy to which 
Joseph, who was brusque in manner and rude of 
speech, was an utter stranger. 

And yet, Joseph loved his wife and loved his sons. 
Of Harry’s proficiency at school he was very proud, 
and whatever the young man desired, was readily 
granted, at whatever cost ; while in the tact and mar- 
vellous intuition of Horace, the honest manufacturer 
found not only pleasure but profit. 

Twenty-three years had passed, and aside from the 
little misunderstandings incident to well-regulated 
families, nothing had happened to mar the home-har- 
mony, or jar the sense of love till now; but now it 
had come. And this was it. 

Jennie Marvin worked in the factory. 

Pretty ? 

She was beautiful in the eyes of all who saw her, 
but to Horace she was the incarnation of all that is 
good and sweet, and true and pure. Her parents were 
very poor while living ; so much so, that in sunshine 
and in rain, Jennie was compelled to walk daily to the 
factory, that the small wages she received might eke 
out the pittance gathered here and there by a willing 
but a shiftless father. Fever deprived Jennie of her 
father, and consumption, tantalizingly cruel in its 
grasp, threatened for months the life of the mother, 
upon whose blessings Jennie lingered long and wistfully 
after death had closed the poor woman’s eyes, leaving 


12 


THE RUSS ELLS. 


the orphaned girl of eighteen to fight for bread as best 
she could. 

A pretty picture was the dainty girl, as turning 
through the stile, dressed in modest garb, she blush- 
ingly acknowledged the foreman’s kindly greeting, 
and hastily passed to her section. They had known 
each other from infancy, and with the crippled 
brother had sat upon the same forms, played the 
same pranks, suffered the same punishments, and 
shared each other’s lunch. As years rolled along, the 
exactions of domestic drudgery kept Jennie at home, 
the studies of Harry required his attention at the acad- 
emy, and Horace’s love of his father’s work sent him 
to the factory, so that save a glimpse now and then at 
church, an occasional meeting on the street, or, per- 
chance, a dance at tjje county fair, the three rarely met. 
In the course of time, however, Jennie sought and 
obtained employment at the mill, and from that 
time on, her daily presence revealed to Horace the 
charms of head and heart which later led hiip to the 
step which eventually changed the course of his life, 
and brought about a collision from which he would 
willingly have shrunk. 

Between Horace and Harry there were no secrets. 
The boys loved each other. In the heat of summer 
Horace protected Harry, and in the winter he shielded 
him from the blast. Whatever the one lacked in 
physical requirements, the other more than supple- 


THE R US SELLS. 


1 3 


mented. Play and interplay was the habit of their 
lives. Horace rejoiced in Harry’s successes at the 
academy, and when the elder disclosed in the secresy 
of their chamber an invention with which he hoped to 
surprise and profit their father, the delight of the one 
far eclipsed the hopefulness of the other. And be- 
tween the boys and their mother, too, was a most 
delightful sympathy. To her they confided the troubles 
of their boyhood, to her they told the embarrassments 
of maturer years. She, mother-like, was full of consid- 
eration, of kindness, of sympathy. She concealed their 
faults, made peace with their father, aided and abetted 
them in all their schemes, and did as ail good mothers 
do, oiled the machinery of home, so that there was but 
little friction and not a bit of flame. 

And yet, although Horace had told his mother every 
trouble he had ever experienced, every annoyance of 
his life, every purpose and ambition of his heart, when 
he discovered his love for Jennie Marvin he said noth- 
ing to her — but told it all to Harry. 

They both jumped to one conclusion. 

They both knew the opposition to come from their 
father. 

And when Horace said to Harry “if I can gain her 
consent to-night, I shall do it,” they both felt it was 
the entering wedge of serious trouble in the family. 

Now Joseph Russell was by no manner of means a 
bad hearted man. On the contrary he was as honest 


14 


7 HE RUSS ELLS. 


and true as steel. He paid his debts, went to church, 
had family prayers, spoke kindly of his neighbors, 
dealt generously with his people, and was reputed one 
of the most straightforward men in the county — but 
he had a weakness. 

He wanted to leave his sons one grade highen 
on the social scale than he was himself. 

Nothing that money could do was grudged in 
Harry’s education. 

Nothing that time and patience, and industry and 
zeal could accomplish, was withheld in his pursuit of 
wealth-for the elevation of his son and heir. 

In his eyes the marriage of his son with one of his 
factory hands would be a step backward, which the 
boys well knew he would never for a moment sanction. 
. Harry and his mother canvassed the matter time 
and time again while Horace and his father were at 
their work, but the way seemed darker the more they 
searched foj light. Harry was fond of the girl ; she 
had always been kind and considerate of him when 
they were children, and even if there were no other 
bond, the fact that Horace loved her, made Jennie 
sacred and loveable in his eyes. To his mother Harry 
recounted all the tender things Horace had told him 
about Jennie, and after much persuasion induced her 
to agree with him, that after all it was the happiness 
of Horace they were bound to consider, and further 
to pledge her influence with her husband, in favor of 


THE R US SELLS. 


15 

the union, or at all events the engagement. With a 
light heart Horace heard Harry’s report one pleasant 
summer night, and he determined that not another 
day should pass before he disclosed his love to Jennie, 
and received by word of mouth her acceptance of his 
hand. 





CHAPTER II. 

A WOMAN IN THE CASE. 

R. Russell’s great factory gave constant em- 
ployment to three hundred men and wo- 
men during the busy season, and by a sys- 
tem of gradation-payments furnished them all a com- 
fortable living the entire year. Very naturally the 
master of so many people was the great man of the 
town, and his influence was acknowledged and sought 
by the neighboring gentry and magnates of the county. 
Always a self-willed and imperious man, Joseph Rus- 
sell became in time little better than a conscien- 
tious tyrant, exacting from everyone a full measure of 
work, and giving with equal fairness a full measure of 
pay. At home he was never genial, but never morose. 
He was making money, his wife was anxious to please, 
and his children were reputable and industrious and 
obedient. He knew that Harry’s infirmity would 
necessitate a life of ease, and for that he was pre- 
pared. To Horace he looked for aid in business, 
and after several years of trial concluded td make 
him a partner, establish him in a home, and gradually 



A WOMAN IN THE CASE. I7 

. Jeave to him the entire management of his affairs. 
He talked freely with his wife of his plans, and an- 
nounced to her that on Horace’s next birthday he 
should hand to him the papers of partnership, give a 
grand holiday-party to the hands, and make his son- 
in name, what he had been for some time in fact— 
the master of the mill. 

The good mother was delighted and imparted an 
added zest to her husband’s pleasure by accepting 
his plan as perfect, and endorsing his idea as the best 
that could be devised. 

At breakfast Mr.. Russell said: “Horace, will you 
drive over to town with me this morning ? I have 
business with Mr. Wilson, the lawyer, which may 
need your counsel.” 

Horace, glad of an opportunity to tell his father of 
his love, cheerfully consented, and together they 
drove off, waving good-bye to the “housekeepers” — 
as they called Mrs. Russell and Harry — as they 
stood together on the broad stone in front of their 
pleasant home. 

The father was full of his project, and he meant 
to broach it- that morning. 

The son was full of his love, and he meant to tell 
it then and there. 

“Horace,” said Mr. Russell, “you have been in 
the factory a long time,’ and are the best foreman I 
ever had. That’s good. I’m glad of it, for I should 


jS a woman in the case. 

hate to have my son behind the rest. Your mother 
and I have been talking the matter over, and I have 
concluded to take you into the business, half-and-half 
— now don’t speak — so that you can have your hand 
on the crank if anything should happen to me. And 
that’s what I’m taking you over to town for.” 

For a moment Horace looked at his father in blank 
astonishment. If an angel from Heaven had prom- 
ised him the desire of his heart, he wouldn’t have 
been more delighted and surprised. Tears filled his 
eyes, and the warm blood flushed his cheeks, as he 
grasped his happy father by the hand, and thanked 
him with an iron grip which meant much more than 
words. 

Then in a moment he said : “ Whatever you say, 
father, I will do, and thank you.” 

“Well, well, that’s all settled then,” said Mr. Rus- 
sell. “ And now, Horace, you must get a wife — get 
a good wife. Get a wife like your mother, my boy, 
and life will be easier. Look at me. Look at home 
— everything bright as a guinea and round as a ball. 
By the way, Horace,' our Member ‘was saying the 
other day that he would be pleased to have us call at 
his place. He has a fine family — two beautiful 
girls. Who knows what might happen, eh ? But— 
bless me ; what’s the matter with the boy ? Why 
don’t you speak? I believe — but no, nonsense, that’s 
absurd ; Horace, what are you thinking of ? ” 


A WOMAN IN THE CASE. • 


*9 


“Well, father, there’s no use in my trying to keep 
secret what must come’ out. I had determined to tell 
you all about it, anyhow, to-day. I was thinking ot 
the dearest girl on earth, father. You know her, you 
like her; So does mother, so does Harry. I wanted 
to tell you that although nothing final has passed be- 
tween us, I am in love with Jennie Marvin ; and with 
your permission mean to make her my wife.” 

If Horace had knocked his father out of the wagon 
he could not have shocked him more. 

Had he lost his senses ? No, the bay team were 
making ten miles an hour over a lovely English road, 
the sunlight was dancing through the trees and across 
the meadow, the reins were in hi's hands, and Horace 
sat by his side, sturdy as an oak and gentle as a 
child. 

“ Conscience guide me ! ” said Mr. Russell, and 
then turning to his son, broke out in a perfect torrent 
of expostulation, censure, abuse and invective, until 
fairly white with rage he said : “ Next Monday will 
be your birthday. I give you till then to decide. 
Forget this girl, strike hands with your father, and be 
a man. Adhere to her, and I disinherit you, turn 
you off, — and don’t you dare to darken my door 
again. You know me. Now no more about it.” 

“ But, father,” began Horace 

“ I tell you no more about it,” rejoined his father. 
“ Here we are at the post-office ; mail this letter, 


20 


A WOMAN IN THE CASE. 


order these books for Harry, and let’s get back as 
soon as we can. We won’t see Mr. Wilson to-day, 
I’m in no mood for business.” 

Horace did as he was bid ; and together they drove 
homeward, unhappy, discontented, and utterly uncon- 
genial. 

As they entered the drive-way, Mrs. Russell met 
them near the gate, and in a moment saw that there 
was trouble between them. 

“Why, what’s the matter, father? ” said she. 

“Ask Horace,” was his reply; and without another 
word to either of them hte turned his back and strode 
off to the mill. 

As he did so, the sweet face of Jennie Marvin 
p^eied out from a group of nurslings by the hedge, 
and a soft voice said : “ Good morning, Mrs. Russell; 
good morning, Horace.” There she was, the cause of 
the first serious misunderstanding between father and 
son ; the simple-hearted, blue-eyed beauty for whom 
Horace would give his life with pleasure. 

“ Why, how late you are, Jennie,” said Horace. 

“Yes, I know it, Horace ; but I was kept at widow 
Harden’s until after eight ; she is very low, and I 
promised the Doctor I would care for her till some 
of the other neighbors looked in. But I’m all right 
now, only I thought I’d give you a surprise, and 
catch you making love to your mother. Good-bye,” 
said Jennie, and off she went to her work. 


A WOMAN IN THE CASE . 


21 


“And that’s the girl you love is it, Horace ?” said 
Mrs. Russell. 

“ Indeed it is,” said he, “ and I tell you, mother 
dear, I love her with all my heart ; and marry her I 
will.” 

He then told his mother all his father had said, 
and, after begging her to intercede with her husband, 
said: “If the worst comes, mother dear, I have 
£200 of my own. We are both young and strong. 
I’ll marry Jennie at once, and together we’ll fight 
our way through life, bringing no discredit on the 
name, and perhaps be able sometime to repay the 
love and kindness you have always shown me. So, 
mother, dry your eyes; help me if you can — and if 
not, I’ll help myself.” 

13 * 



CHAPTER III. 

HE ASKS : SHE ANSWERS. 

OT a word was exchanged between Horace * 
and his father all day. After tea, at night, the 
young man, who was as frank and honest in 
heart as he was noble and truthful in appearance, laid 
his hand upon his father’s shoulder, and giving it a 
loving grip ; said : “ Father, I am going down to see 
Jennie. Let me take a kind word from you ? ” 

It was well meant, but the boy did not understand 
the man. 

Without changing his position, Joseph Russell said : 

“ You know my wish — obey it, and all’s well ; thwart 
it, and we are no more to each other forever.” 

Mrs. Russell said nothing, though she looked un- 
utterable sympathy ; but Harry, who loved his father, 
mother, and brother as one, rose hastily from the 
table, and throwing himself full upon his father’s 
breast, begged and implored him to be considerate, 
to wait, to hear what Horace proposed, and at all 
events to withdraw what seemed, to an over-sensitive 
nature, very much like a curse. 



HE ASKS : SHE ANSWERS. 


2 3 


But it was useless. 

A stubborn man is harder to move than a mule, 
and Joseph Russell was precisely that. 

The end of it all was that the father pretended to 
read the county paper, his wife busied herself with 
tearful eyes about her domestic duties, Harry wept 
alone, full length upon his bed, and Horace went to 
see his love. 

Of course he went. 

He had told Jennie that afternoon, as she was leav- 
ing the mill, that he should see her in the evening, 
and as he had something to say to her, should wish 
her to take a walk with him by the side of the river. 

Quick as a flash Jennie saw, or rather felt — for 
women always feel situations long before they are ap- 
parent to men, —that something had gone wrong; but 
wisely saying nothing, she quickly put on her hat, and 
together they passed into the street. 

Ordinarily, Horace was tired with his day’s work, 
and inclined to rest. He didn’t object to being talked 
to, but he hated to answer questions. He was like a 
vast majority of the better grade of men who like the 
attentions and loving ways of women, but do not en- 
courage inquisitiveness, even if it be born of genuine 
interest. 

But on this occasion every nerve was alert, and 
every fibre on a quiver. He hurried Jennie along at 
a pace very much faster than a lover’s lounge, until 


24 


H ASKS: SHE ANSWERS. 


they reached the bank of a beautiful stream, protect- 
ed by superb old trees, through whose leaves the 
bright beams of an August moon gleamed and glis- 
tened. 

Taking her head in his two hands, he turned up to 
the full gaze of his impassioned eyes, and the full 
light of the curious moon, one of the sweetest of 
faces. 

He didn’t stop to kiss her. 

Without a caress, without premonition of any kind, 
he spoke to her, and in such earnestness that she felt 
the gravity and sincerity of every word. 

“ I know you love me, Jennie. You have told me 
so a thousand times and more. You love me devot- 
edly, and I — well, I love you well enough to make 
you my wife, and that’s about as much as man can 
do. I leave my father. I go at once. I have ^200 
in cash, my head, my hands, and a constitution of 
iron. I want from you an answer now ; will .you 
be my wife, will you join me hand to hand and go 
with me in search of home and fortune ? Say yes. 
Don’t mar it by a but, or an if, or a why. If you 
love me, say yes. Will you ? ” 

Throwing her arms about his neck, and begining 
her face in the bosom of her lover, Jennie answered 
as he wished ; but how, or in what language, is not 
given us to tell. 

The passion was over, and after the natural inter- 


HE ASKS: SHE ANSWERS. 


25 

change of vows, assurances, and asseverations cus- 
tomary at such times, Horace told Jennie the whole 
story, and anticipated her objections and demurrals, 
by saying that he had written to Liverpool for infor- 
mation respecting the steamers, and that doubtless the 
whole affair, separation, marriage, and embarkation 
for New York, to which point he had concluded to go, 
would be consummated by the close of the follow- 
ing week. 

“ And yet,” said he, “ I shall hate to leave mother, 
it will almost kill Harry, and how father and the mill 
will get on without me, is more than I can tell.” 

But with an effort, he pushed away all the unpleas- 
ant features, turned to Jennie, his betrothed, kissed 
her again and again, and after leaving her at her door, 
started homeward at a rapid gait. 

At the gate he met his mother. “Why, mother, 
it’s after ten o’clock ; what are you doing here ? ” 

“ Waiting for you, darling,” said she ; “ waiting for 
my first-born son. Can you not give up this love, dear 
Horace ? ” 

“ Mother ” 

“ But hear me, darling. Can you not wait ? ” 

“ Mother, I love Jennie. She has promised to be 
my wife, and before a week is passed marry her I 
will. ” 

“ Heaven bless you, my son. Heaven bless you. 

Come what may your mother loves you, trusts you, 
2 


2 6 


HE ASKS : SHE ANSWERS. 


and will always pray for you and yours. Good-night, 
my boy. Remember he is your father. Speak gen- 
tly. It will do no harm, for he loves you very much 
and his disappointment is very great. ” 

They parted affectionately, as their custom was, and 
long hours passed before Horace reached his room, 
and throwing his arm over his beloved Harry, fell 
into a deep and restful sleep. 





CHAPTER IV. 


TEN YEARS LATER. A SUMMONS. 



EN long years of hard work, disappointment, 
domestic comfort, bereavement, hope, anxi- 
ety and struggle passed over the heads of 
Horace Russell and his faithful wife. They had 
crossed the ocean, found a home in Michigan, buried 
a daughter, made a fortune, lost it in afire, and grown 
mature in each others respect and love. , 

Occasional letters from home had told of the grad- 
ual decline and death of the gentle mother ; of the 
sudden paralysis and death of the loving Harry ; of 
the princely wealth and hardening character of the 
father, and such lighter gossip as brings one’s child- 
hood’s home and days so vividly before the absent. 

With a few thousand dollars laid away for a rainy 
day, Horace felt that he was comfortable, but not 
content. His mind was active, but the necessity of 
daily occupation left him but little leisure for study in 
his peculiar line. He knew that he had material in 
his mind, which if utilized, would make him rich and 
perhaps famous. But like Mary of old he hid all these 



28 TEN YEARS LATER. A SUMMONS. 

things in his heart, and never by look or word gave 
hint to Jennie of the unrest which was a canker to 
his life. 

On the 1 6th of August 1854 he received a letter 
postmarked London. 

The handwriting was unfamiliar, and with some 
apprehension he opened it. 

THE LETTER. 

London, August 2d, 1854. 

Dear Sir, — A message from my old friend, the Rev- 
Mr. Marsh, received this morning, tells me that your 
dear father has not long to live. When I occupied 
temporarily Mr. Marsh’s pulpit, I had occasion to see 
much of Mr. Russell, and one* evening he unbur- 
dened to me the secret of his life. He loves you. 
He longs once more to see you. And yet so stub- 
born was his pride, that he would not consent even 
that a message might be sent to you. Knowing as 
I do his critical condition, aware as I am of his fath- 
erly affection for the boy of his early manhood, the 
first-born of his love, I have taken this liberty in your 
common interest, and beg you to lay aside whatever 
your occupation may be, and come. here that you 
may receive your father’s blessing, and I greatly fear 
to close your father’s eyes. 

Pardon me, if in sending you the enclosed Bill for 


TEN YEARS LATER. A SUMMONS. 


29 


^100 I offend, but not knowing your circumstances, 
I take the same liberty with you, that I would wish 
taken with my son, if his father were dying, and he an 
exile. 

With best wishes for your health, and earnestly 
begging you to come home at once, 

I am, yours most truly, 

John Hall, 

Rector of St. John's. 
To Horace Russell, Milwaukee. 

Enclosed, Bill on Brown Bro’s & Co. for J\oo. 

Jennie’s round fair arm was encircling her hus- 
band’s neck, and the little fat hands of Harry, their 
boy, were tearing the envelope at his feet. 

For a moment the tears refused to come, but only 
for a moment. Then rising to his feet, the noble fel- 
low said: “Jennie, love, see to the traps. I’ll go 
down to the agent’s — learn about the steamers, and 
be back in half an hour. For dearest, he is my 
father after all, you know ; and if he had known you 
darling, as Heaven grant he may even yet, we never 
should have left him.” 

And off he went. 

Of course the p^ioo were not needed. 

The next day Horace drew his money, paid his 
bills, placed his affairs in the hands of a lawyer, 
packed up, and started for New York. 


3 ° 


TEN YE AES LATER. A SUMMONS. 


One week later he stood upon the deck of a 
superb Cunarder — but he stood alone, crying like a 
babe. 




CHAPTER V. 

THE BOY, OH WHERE WAS HE? 

ERHAPS you think men should never cry. 
Well, let us see. 

Three days before this, Horace, his wife, 
and little Harry reached the Astor House, and were 
shown one of the best rooms in the hotel. 

The next day was spent in necessary preparations 
for the voyage. 

The day preceding the day of sailing was equally 
occupied until about six o’clock, when Jennie, being 
utterly exhausted, threw herself on the bed Jo rest. 

Horace was weary, too. . 

But little Harry was cross. 

Of course he was. 

Two long days he had been left in the care of a 
chambermaid, who was kind and careless. He rolled 
a hoople through the halls till a call-boy stole it. He 
slid down the banisters until one of the guests com- 
plained at the office. He went into the dining-hall 
twenty times a day, and gorged himself until he was 




THE BOY, OH WHERE WAS HE ? 


32 

sick. He played marbles with a little boy from Bos- 
ton, and won all his stock. 

He wore himself out in the endeavor to amuse 
himself. 

And when his father carried him up-stairs on his 
back, after dinner on Friday evening, he begged him 
to take him out for a walk. 

Little Harry was five years old, tall of his age, 
smart, bright, quick, and full of fun. His hair was 
let black, like his father’s ; his eye was a blue gray, 
like his mother’s. Nothing frightened him, but he 
could be easily moved by his sympathies. 

Altogether he was a loving, lovable boy — one of 
the kind that fathers whip and mothers shield ; who 
always turn out well in spite of the lash, and develop 
qualities precisely the opposite to those which their 
" teachers and guardians ” predict for their man- 
hood. 

However, out they went. The father proud of the 
son ; the boy pleased with his father. 

They walked over to the City Hall Park, and ad- 
mired the architectural wonders of the building with 
its marble front and freestone rear. They wandered 
over the green grass, watched a free fight between 
two rival fire companies at the corner of Chatham and 
Frankfort streets, bought a penny glass of ice cream 
of an old woman near the Park, and were turning 
down-town towards the Astor House, when — 


THE BOY, OH WHERE WAS HE? 


♦ 

33 

“ Hallo ! where’s the boy ? ” 

Quite a question, wasn’t it ? 

Horace looked in vain. 

He met one of MatselFs watchmen in an old 
fashioned police hat, and told him his story. 

Of course he wasted time. 

What should he do ? 

The unfeeling crowd hurried by him. Carts and 
wagons and stages passed in everlasting procession 
along the street. 

But the boy, the apple of his eye, the core of his 
heart, the darling of his wife — his wife ! How should 
he tell his wife ? 

What should he tell his wife ? 

Half crazed with fear, full of bitter self-reproaches, 
uncertain which way to go, unfamiliar with the city 
and its ways, the poor fellow grasped the first man he 
could, and asked him to show him to the station. 

Thinking Russell was drunk, the man shoved him 
off, and hurried on. 

He spoke to another and was directed to the Chief’s 
office, where all the satisfaction he could get was the 
tantalizing reply that if the boy turned up, the office 
would keep him until his father called. 

“ But I leave the country to-morrow,” said Horace ; 
“ the steamer sails at nine, and we must be on board 
by eight.” 

“ Oh, wait over.” replied the Sergeant. 

2* 



34 THE boy, oh where was he? 

“ My father is dying and I must go,” rejoined Rus- 
sell” 

But of course “ talk ” did no good. 

The officer took little Harry’s name and description 
in his Book, thus 

The Record. 

Person — Small boy. 

Name — Harry Russell. 

Age — Five years. 

Description — Tall, slender. 

Remarks — Lost near lower end of the City Hall 
Park. Horace Russell at Astor House. 

“ There, sir,” said the Sergeant, now that all right. 
You go home and if the boy is found we’ll take care 
of him. Now don't make a fuss. Good night.” And 
with that he slammed the book upon the desk, by way 
of emphasis, and turned to read his a paper. 

Horace moved off with a heavy heart and hesitated 
long before he gave up the search, and went to tell his 
wife. 

What words are adequate to picture that scene ? 

The heart-crushed man and the horror-struck woman 
looked at each other, as shrouded in despair, they 
saw their utter helplessness, and felt their desolation. 

If Harry had died, they would have known the ex- 
tent of their loss ; but the very uncertainty of his fate 
added to their misery and gave poignancy to the sick- 
ness of their hearts. 


THE BOY, OH WHERE WAS HE. 


35 


Those of you who have laid your hearts in the grave 
can understand, partially, the feeling with which Jen- 
nie sat at the window through the weary hours of that 
long night, while Horace paced the streets. 

You who have not known Death, need not seek to 
understand. 






CHAPTER VI. 

SHORT AND BITTER. 

MORNING of anguish ensued upon a night 
of frantic grief. 

Horace felt the urgency of the errand he 
was on, and when the Police suggested that if he 
must go, possibly his wife could remain and prosecute 
the search, he accepted the proposition, and at once 
broached it to Jennie. 1 

Well — she was a woman and a wife and a mother, 
and that tells the story. He went on, and she stayed 
behind. 

She drove to the dock and watched the steamer ; 
waving her handkerchief to her husband, as he stood 
leaning against the rail. 

What wonder that the strong man wept ? 





CHAPTER VII. 

LOVE MELTETH EVEN PRIDE. 

H, the long, long days at sea ! 

And the nights — would they never end ? 
His heart was with his wife and boy, but 
his duty sternly beckoned Horace to his father’s 
home. 

Not an hour passed in the dreary day without its 
prayer to Heaven, that little Harry might be saved. 

And in the weary watches of the night, the father 
heard the little fellow’s cry, and starting, found he 
heard it not. 

The Captain and some of the passengers knew of 
the circumstances attending Horace’s trip, and en- 
deavored to console him by such suggestions as 
naturally occur to men of the world ; but the heart- 
sick parent heeded them not. And even while he 
looked ahead to the meeting with his father, his very 
soul lingered* longingly near the dear ones in New 
York. 

Every storm brought pictu •* of Harry’s distress 







38 LOVE MELTETH EVEN PRIDE . 

before his eyes ; and when the fall features of the Au- 
gust moon disclosed themselves in the placid sky, 
wonder and imagination were busy with the possibili- 
ties of accident or harm to the wanderer. 

At length Liverpool was reached, the kind Rector 
seen and repaid, the brisk drive made to the county 
town, near which were his father’s works, and finally 
the mill itself loomed up beyond the stream, quickly 
followed by the house where he was born, and where 
liis dear ones died. 

Horace had left his home a youth, full of hope and 
courage. 

He returned a man, sick in heart, anxious, restless, 
worn with care. 

A strange face greeted him at the door. Entering 
he met the Doctor and a neighbor, to whom his com- 
ing was like the appearance of a welcome ghost, for 
not an hour in all the days went by in which the sick 
man did not murmur, “ Horace, Harry, Horace 
Horace.” 

In a sentence, the condition of Joseph Russell 
was disclosed. It was possible, the Doctor said, that 
he might rally, and recover his senses^ before morn- 
ing, but his death was a question of brief time only, 
and might indeed occur at any moment. 

Hastily passing his friends, Horace made his way 
to the well-remembered bedroom. 

On the wall hung the portrait of his blessed mother 

* * 


LOVE MEL TE TH E VEN PRLDE. 


39 


There was the chair in which she sat and read to him 
on Sunday. The old-fashioned bureau standing in 
the corner still held the sampler she worked at school, 
and in a frame at the end stood a silhouette of her 
mother, cut by an artist at the County Fair. The 
brass hand-irons and the wooden stool were as natural 
as life, and the high-posted bedstead — 

On that was his father. 

His father indeed, but not the father of his 
thoughts. 

He remembered a strong, athletic man ; he saw a 
faded, dying paralytic. 

Advancing cautiously to the side of the bed, Horace 
laid one hand gently on his father’s ample brow, and 
pressing with the other the attenuated fingers which 
nervously played with the outer covering, whispered : 
“ Father, I am Horace, do you know me ? ” 

For a moment all was still. 

The sick man opened his eyes. 

His parched lips wanted water, and after it was 
given him, with an effort he partly raised himself in 
bed and began to speak, ivhen he fell exhausted on 
the pillow. 

Almost distracted, Horace called the doctor, who 
knew he was of no use, but very kindly came in, 
looked solemn, suggested the wetting of the lips, ad- 
vised perfect quiet, and went out. 

Presently Joseph Russell opened his great black 


40 


LOVE MELTETH EVEN PRIDE. 


eyes again, smiled, sat up in bed, threw his arms upon 
his son, murmured: “Horace, Harry, Mary,” and 
gave up the ghost. 

For an instant Jennie and little Harry were blotted 
from existence. 

For an instant boyhood resumed its being, and 
Horace was a romping lad, cheered on by Harry, 
laughed at by his mother, and chided by his prouder 
father. 

And then — well, it only lasted an instant. Then 
he was a man again, with a father dead before him, a 
sorrowing wife he knew not where, and a boy — oh, 
what would Horace not have given if he could re- 
gain that boy ? 

After the funeral services, which were largely at 
tended by all the county some three days after, Mr. 
Wilson who had been Joseph Russell’s man of busi- 
ness in all matters affecting law and formula, begged 
the favor of Horace’s presence in the library. 

He went. 

“ Mr. Russell,” said Mr. Wilson, “ as the sole heir 
and legatee of Joseph Russell, deceased, I have in- 
vited you here to take formal cognizance of the will 
of the decedent. He was a queer man, sir, a queer 
man. Would you believe it, sir, I never have read 
this will. He wrote it himself, sir, six years ago, the 
very night poor Harry died, when he tore up one I 


LOVE MEL TE TH E VEN PRLDE. 


41 


did write, and about which I of course knew every- 
thing. The will has been in my box six years, handed 
me by Joseph Russell hinrself, witnessed by me and 
my clerk, and we will read it sir, together. 

THE WILL. 

In the name of God, Amen. I, Joseph Russell, 
of Lewes, County Sussex, England, being in clear head 
and sound body, make this my will and testament, all 
others being destroyed and of no avail. My wife 
Mary is dead, God bless her. My son Harry is dead, . 
God bless him. And I have no other kindred, heirs, 
or assigns.” 

Up to this point Mr. Wilson had read quite glibly ; 
now he began to be apprehensive. Horace sat like 
a stone. 

Mr. Wilson continued : — “ My oldest son Horace 
Russell, God bless him, left his home years ago. I 
threatened to disinherit him. I never did, I* never 
shall. He is bone of my bone, and flesh of my 
flesh. He has my pardon — I hope for his. To him, 
H0r3.ce Russell, I leave my house, my mills, my 
real estate, and all my property, real and personal, 
of whatever nature, to do with as he may elect, re- 
serving such sums as he may find necessary for the 
discharge of my funeral expenses and other debts ; 
and excepting ^50 to each foreman, £2 to each 


42 


LOVE MEL TE TH E VEN PRLDE. 


operative, ^500 to the parish of St. Sarah, and £10 
per annum for the care of the ground where rest the 
dear bodies of Mary my wife, and Harry my son. 
Written with my own hand on one sheet of white 
foolscap paper, this nth of August, 1849, and signed 
by me, and witnessed by John Wilson and Henry 
Place. 

Joseph Russell, l. s. 

Witness, 

John Wilson, l. s. 

Henry Place, l. s. 

“ Gracious heavens, Mr. Russell ! ” said the grati- 
fied attorney, “this is handsome. Why, sir, you’ve a 
plum at least, sir. The mills themselves are worth 
three quarters of that, and you may rely on my cal- 
culation. I congratulate you, sir. When shall we 
go on ? ” 

Horace never said a word. 

In a moment ^100,000 were placed at his disposal, 
and he never said one word. 

Mr. Wilson began to feel out of place. Presently 
he was convinced that he had better retire. 

Then he laid his card on the table, took his hat in 
his hand, and quietly stole away. 9 

And Horace sat motionless for hours, and n^ver 
said one word aloud. 



CHAPTER VIII. 


TILL DEATH DOTH THEM PART. 

ORACE met his wife at the wharf. 

Not a word was needed. 

Her looks answered his distressed and 


anxious eye. 

She had come home without the boy. 

That night they slept in the old house, the dear 
old home where Horace was born, every room of 
which had its precious memory of those who were 
gone. 

Slept did we say — far from it. 

Held tightly in her loving husband’s arms, Jennie 
told the ten days’ story of her terrible experiences ; 
how she had wearied the police with her importunity ; 
how the Astor House people had kindly interested 
themselves in her trouble, and laid it before the chief 
magistrate of the city ; how the press had aided her ; 
and how after ten days of ceaseless energy, tireless 
activity and most faithful inquiry, they and she had 
Been forced to see the utter uselessness of further 
search. 




44 


TILL DEATH DOTH THEM PART. 


“And then, darling,” said Jennie as floods of tears 
relieved her tired head, “ I turned to you. I turned 
to you and longed to have you tell me where to 
look for comfort ; how to reconcile my sorrow with my 
faith ; how I could pray to a loving Saviour, with the 
grieving voice of Harry calling 1 mamma ’ in my ears.” 

What could the strong man say ? 

How could he, whose very heart was dried to dust 
in grief, find waters of consolation for the crushed and 
broken woman at his side ? 

And so the night rolled on, beguiled by Horace’s 
report concerning his father’s death, his will, his busi- 
ness cares and sudden responsibilities, until as the 
early morning came they dropped to sleep. 

To sleep, but not to rest. 

Not to rest, for every noise startled Jennie from 
her slumber, and every movement of her husband 
brought her back to grief, and in every breath she 
dreamed of Harry, till, with the bright sunlight stream- 
ing in the window, she woke to repeat her experi- 
ence, and Horace more exhausted than before, found 
nothing in his heart to say. 

There are griefs and griefs, just as there are differ 
ent kinds of people. 

Some wear off ; others wear in. 

Horace felt quite as deeply as Jennie did, but upon 
him was laid her care, her comfort, and, perhaps he 
found in that duty a certain relief to which she was 


TILL DEATH DOTH THEM PART 


45 


a stranger. And then he was at once so thoroughly 
immersed in business care that for many hours 
every day his mind was forced into other channels., 
and thus he was comforted. 

But Jennie had no cares. 

Her housekeeper took care of the establishment. 
She had no little ones to look out for. She found very 
little pleasure in renewing acquaintance with the few 
who remembered her as “ that factory -girl who run off 
with Horace Russell,” and she was literally left to 
self-communion and self-torture the greater part of 
the time. 

She had authorized the police to pay one thousand 
dollars to any person who would give provable in- 
formation about Harry, dead or alive, and she com- 
municated regularly, through Mr. Wilson, with the 
New York authorities. At the end of a few months 
the lost boy had become a very old story to the offi- 
cials, and finally the Chief wrote to Mr. Wilson that 
further correspondence was unnecessary, but that if 
anything was discovered at any time he would, of 
course, and at once, communicate with him. 

From that date Jennie declined. 

She declined fast. 

Horace watched her like a lover, and tended her 
like a mother. Her slightest wish was a command. 
All her bodily wants were anticipated by the kindest 
of husbands, and assuming a cheer he was far from 


4 6 TILL DEA TH DOTH THEM PAR T. 

feeling, the generous fellow often endeavored to lead 
her into such pleasant paths of social excitement as 
were open to them. 

But he failed. 

His heart wasn’t there, — and what excitement can 
take the place of interest ? 

Slowly, but surely, her decline developed into the 
foreshade of Death, and one bright moonlight night, 
with her feeble arms around her husband’s neck, as his 
encircled hers, she sweetly smiled her crushed and 
broken heart into the eternal silence of an early grave. 




CHAPTER IX. 

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 

HE grave and reverend Matsell, superintend- 
ent of the New York police force, sat in his 
cosy inner office, dividing his precious time 
between the demolishment of a huge bunch of grapes 
and the mastery of a copy of formal “charges” pre-' 
ferred against the Board of Commissioners, when a 
formidable looking document, bearing the impress of 
the City’s seal, was handed him. 

Naturally cautious and careful of his digestion, he 
first finished his grapes and then broke the seal. In 
the envelope was the following 

LETTER FROM THE MAYOR. 

Mayor’s Office, New York, August io, 1874. 

Sir, — You will on receipt of this, detail a reliable and 
efficient officer from the Detective Bureau to aid 
Horace Russell, Esq., in a matter of importance. Mr. 
Russell can be found at the Clarendon Hotel to-mor- 



• TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 


48 

row morning at nine o’clock, at which time let the 
officer report to him, and place himself absolutely at 
his disposal, until such time as his services are of no 
further use. Mr. Russell will provide whatever funds 
may be necessary in the undertaking, and the officer 
will be relieved of all other duty, until dismissed by 
him. 

By order of the Mayor. 

George C. King, Chief Clerk. 

To Geo. W. Matsell, Supt. Police. 

“ Heaven bless me,” said the old Chief. “What 
can this be ? In the whole course of my official life 
I never have read such an order as this before. How- 
ever, I’ll soon know all about it.” 

Summoning Captain Irving, he asked which of the 
detectives would be most likely to serve the purpose 
desired. Without a moment’s hesitation, Captain 
Irving replied : 

“ John Hardy, the keenest man I have, but I don’t 
care to spare him for any length of time.” 

“ Never mind that,” rejoined the Chief, “ send him 
to me.” 

In a few moments Officer John Hardy presented 
himself at the Superintendent’s desk. Standing erect 
in the presence of his superior he was as handsome a 
man as one would see in a long day’s walk. Appa- 
rently about twenty-four years old he was at least five 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 


49 

feet ten inches high, straight and slender ; his hair 
was' jet black ; his eyes an indescribable gray, looking 
blue or black as they were enlivened by humor or 
anger ; his nose was not purely Grecian, but passed 
for such ; and over a well formed lip, firm though full, 
hung a'soft and graceful moustache. John had fun 
in him. Quick to detect the grotesque, easy temper- 
ed, with a sunny disposition, nervous, industrious and 
persevering, he had worked his way from the humble 
post of messenger, through every grade in the service, 
until he stood high in the esteem of his superiors as a 
detective of rare sagacity, wonderful intuition, and 
fairly magical in “ luck.” . 

All men have histories, but very few can look back 
upon a more eventful career — in humble life — than 
John Hardy. 

His parents were scavengers. That is, his father 
was, and his mother — well she was a scavenger’s wife, 
with the same skeleton and general formation as the 
rest of her sex : with love for her child like other 
women, and full of the ambitions, cares and anxieties 
common to us all. 

John Hardy’s father was a scavenger. That is, he 
used to go out in the morning with a bag, or basket, 
and a pick or rake, searching for what he might find. 
And he found a great deal. He found so much ip 
gutter and street, in mound and filth, in sewer and re- 
fuse, that when he died his wife arid sqn were heirs tq 
3 


/ 


TWENTY YEATS AFTER . 


50 

$5,000 and a tenement house worth $10,000 more, 
with a rental of $600 per annum. 

The secrets of New York sewers are not open to 
the world. Even the keen eyes of New York repor- 
ters have not searched them out, and what reporters 
have not discovered must be tolerably well hid. Down 
in the dirty depths so black and full of gloom, myriads 
of nasty creatures hunt each other. Rats and slimy 
creeping things prey on weaker evidences of Nature’s 
omnipresence. Water and slime slush through the 
channels ; all manner of refuse finds its way to the 
outlet ; jewels, the lost of every name, sink to the 
bottom, or lodge on the jutting stones ; in other words 
under our streets, there are other avenues where life 
conceals itself, where riches pass side by side with the 
offscourings of the earth, and where the lantern of the 
scavenger discloses much that is terrible and sicken- 
ing, but much, also, that is valuable and worth pre- 
serving. 

A life spent in unveiling the mysteries of sewerage is 
not likely to be rich in anything, lest it be in the dis- 
covered wealth to be found in the dirt and muck of 
the streets ; but scavengers are men, and there is no 
reason why they should necessarily be bad men. - 

At all events, John Hardy’s father was so good a 
man as this : He loved his wife, and idolized their 
son. 

He knew nothing of books, cared nothing for news- 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 


51 


papers, and never went to church. But he sent John 
to school, and when the little fellow marched to the 
head of his classes, developing talent in every line of 
study, and, finally, stood before an audience of a thou- 
sand strangers, wearing the medals of honor, as he 
spoke the valedictory of his class, who shall say that 
the tears which coursed down the old man’s cheeks 
were not as manly and as creditable to the scavenger, 
as though they were born of a philosopher or a student ? 

The Hardys’ humble home was quite near Police 
Head-quarters, and long before John had left the pub- 
lic school he was as intimate and familiar there as any 
of the officers. 

He was a bright boy, quick as a flash, and always 
ready to do errands for the habitues of the place. 

When he left school he was made messenger in the 
Inspector’s office, then a clerk, and after a subsequent 
term as roundsman, was detailed to detective duty, 
where we have found him. 

“ Officer Hardy,” said the Superintendent, “ I have 
received an order from the Mayor directing me to de- 
tail a prudent man from your bureau for an important 
duty. The Captain recommends you, and I confirm 
his selection. You will call on Mr. Russell, at the 
Clarendon, at 9 o’clock to-morrow morning, and place 
yourself at his disposal. I jjave no information as to 
his desires. Do whatever he directs, and in case of 
doubt report at once to me ; you are relieved from 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER . 


52 

duty here until further orders. Now do your best, 
Hardy. I have a feeling that this is to be a great 
opportunity. Why, I’m sure I don’t know : but I do. 
That’s all,” and as Hardy went away the Chief reread 
the order from the Mayor, and wondered what it 
could refer to. 






CHAPTER X. 

HE AND SHE. 

nine o’clock on the following day officer 
Hardy, in citizen’s dress, was ushered into 
the presence of Mr. Russell. 

It was Horace. 

Time had told upon him. 

His head was bald as a billiard ball, and the locks 
which fringed the scalp and hung curling over the 
ears were gray. His eye was as bright as in the old- 
en time, but his form was bent, and the close-shut 
mouth marked the firmness of his will, which had de- 
veloped of late much like his father’s. 

Advancing to meet the detective, Mr. Russell look- 
ed at him with undisguised interest. 

He expected to see a cast-iron soldier, straight, 
stiff and pompous. 

In place of such a one he was confronted by a 
handsome youth, who might as well be taken for a 
gentleman of leisure, as a man whose life was devoted 
to the unearthing of villany. 




54 


HE AND SHE. 


“ Mr. Hardy, you are the officer I was told to ex- 
pect this morning, I presume, and I am very glad to 
see you,” said Horace Russell ; “ this is my wife and 
this my daughter.” 

At the moment of speaking two ladies entered the 
room, the elder a woman of perhaps forty years, a 
matron grave, dignified and handsome ; the other a 
petite young miss, upon whose fair head some eighteen 
summers had cast their loving sunshine, leaving the 
golden impress on every waving tress. 

“Take seats, please,” said Mr. Russell; “I have 
much to tell Mr. Hardy, and he needs to be attentive.” 

“You would much better let mamma tell him, papa 
dear,” said Maud, as she put a lump of sugar between 
the bars of her canary’s cage. “ She knows all about it, 
and you say yourself she is just as much interested in 
poor dear Harry as you are, and as for me, I’m fairly 
wild about him. Come, Mr. Hardy, you sit there near 
the window. Papa can have the easy-chair. I’ll sit 
on this hassock by papa’s knee ; and mamma, let’s see, 
mamma must take the piano-stool so she can gesture. 
There now, who says I’m not a manager ? ” 

Even Mr. Russell laughed at the girl’s vivacity. 
All were seated as Maud directed, and John Hardy 
pinched his arm. He really didn’t know whether he 
was in Heaven or at his work. 

He soon found out. 

“Well, Mr. Hardy,” began Mrs. Russell, “it’s a 


HE AND SHE. 


55 

very long story. I don’t think you’ll need that note- 
book, for I’ll make it simple, and there really is very 
little in the way of dates and names and places. You 
know our name, and that’s the only name you need 
to remember, and you certainly know New York, and 
that’s the only place involved ; so what’s the use of 
notes ? ” 

John put up his book, and Mrs. Russell went on. 

Horace shut his eyes, and Maud held his hands 
like a vice. 

“ Ten years ago,” said the lady, “ 1 went to Eng- 
land, from my native city, New York, a widow with 
my little Maud, then eight years old and very deli- 
cate. Mr. Russell met us, and nine years since, this 
very month, we were married. Three months ago, 
on my husband’s fifty-third birthday, we gave a grand 
holiday party to the hands of his factory, and every- 
thing was going on splendidly, when I accidentally 
stumbled on him in his study, with his head on his 
desk, crying like a baby. It was the third time I had 
found him so. The other times I went away quietly, 
thinking it best not to disturb him, but this seemed 
so strange I really couldn’t resist the impulse to 
speak. I did so. At first he parried my questions, 
but finally told me about a little boy he had lost in 
New York twenty years ago; how he never slept 
without dreaming* of his child ; that in his thoughts by 
day and his hours of wakefulness at night the little fel- 


5 6 HE AND SHE. 

low was ever present ; that bitterest self-reproaches 
were constantly heaped upon him, and that over all 
his life of prosperity and success hung this dreadful 
mystery, like a pall of blackest gloom, and at times 
he felt he should go mad in sheer despair.” 

“ And you,” said the detective. 

“ I,” replied Mrs. Russell, “ I saw my path as plain 
as daylight. In less than ten minutes I had the mas- 
ter among his men, the happiest of them all, for I had 
settled it then and there that his duty and my plea- 
sure were one. His duty was to find that boy ; my 
pleasure was the same — and that’s why we’re here.” 

“ Yes, Mr. Hardy, that’s why we’re here,” broke in 
Maud, “ and that’s why you’re here, which is much 
more to the point. Only I don’t see that mamma has 
told you as much as she might have. For instance, 
mamma, don’t you remember how papa says he was 
just at the lower end of a park, and was looking at a 
picture of a fat woman and a zebra on a great banner 
across a street, when all of a sudden little Harry was 
gone ? ” 

“ Perhaps Mr. Russell can give me the details of 
the loss, now that I have heard the story of your com- 
ing,” said Hardy, and taking his note-book from his 
pocket received from Horace Russell the particu- 
lars of the eventful night, when all that made life 
dear and sweet to a loving mother and a happy father 
was in an instant blotted from their sight. 


HE AND SHE. 


57 

Then as he rose to leave the detective said : “ First 
of all I’ll hunt up the police blotter and find out all 
they knew at the time of the disappearance.” 

“ And then,” said Maud. 

“And then, Miss,” replied he, “ we’ll consider our 
course.” 

It was arranged between Mr. Russell and Hardy that 
the latter should call every morning at nine, and 
report every evening at eight, and that whatever hap- 
pened should be disclosed in full at the latter hour. 

Bidding the Russells good morning, John Hardy 
found himself hurrying down town to the Central 
office, as if wings were on his feet, a,nd ether in his 
lungs. 

The man thought he was interested in his mission. 

Perhaps he was. 

He certainly was heels over head in love with 
Maud Russell, and didn’t know it. 

3 * 







CHAPTER XI. 

SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 

HEN Hardy reached Headquarters he re- 
ported at once to Superintendent Matsell 
the developments of the morning, and was 
gratified at the great interest the old gentleman took 
in the matter ; especially, when upon comparing dates 
it was found that little Harry had been lost when 
Matsell was Chief of the Municipal Police, some 
twenty years before. 

Reference to the official documents afforded nothing 
beyond the bare fact of loss, and so far as any practi- 
cal help was concerned, the books might have been 
burned years before. 

This much was ascertained — no dead body answer- 
ing Harry’s description had been found at or near the 
time of his disappearance, and on that they based 
a hope that he was still living. 

“ It might be well, Hardy,” said ihe Chief, “ to ex- 
amine the records at the Tombs. Suppose we go 
down there now ” — and jumping on a Bleecker street 
car, down they went. 





SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 


59 

Warden Quinn stood at the open gateway of the 
City Prison, as the Superintendent, in full uniform, 
gold spectacles and high hat, stepped upon the side- 
walk. A second after John Hardy appeared from the 
car, and together the officials walked up to the War- 
den, who saluted them with a calmness of demeanor 
which very inadequately pictured the wonder of his 
mind. 

“Ah, John, good morning, John,” said Matsell, 
addressing the Warden. “ Hardy and I have a little 
business with your old books this morning. How 
long will it take Finley to get down the record book 
of 1854? I want ta see it. Let’s see; we want 
August. Tell him to get us the August record, John, 
and then show us through the prison.” 

The Warden gave the necessary orders to the 
kindly-faced keeper, who has been on duty at the 
Tombs, man and boy, since the first prisoner was 
taken inside its dreary walls. 

The three then passed the keeper at the inner gate, 
who respectfully touched his hat as he facetiously 
proffered return tickets to the Superintendent and the 
Detective, and walking along the stone-covered 
enclosure, reached the entrance to the prison for 
men, just as that relic of barbarism, the “Black 
Maria,” was driven in for its morning load of island 
prisoners. 

The “ Black Maria” is a heavy wagon, shaped like 


60 SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 

a windowless omnibus. At the extreme top is a slit, 
extending around from front to rear, and immediately 
back of the driver is a small hole. Through these 
utterly inadequate orifices air is supplied to the people 
shut and locked in, on their way from the Tombs to the 
island ferry. Men and women, old and young, 
drunk and sober, filthy and clean, innocent and guilty, 
the hardened offender and the neophyte in . crime are 
packed into this noisome van, as sheep were formerly 
crowded in the cattle cars, before the happier days of 
Henry Bergh and his Society for the ^Prevention of 
Cruelty to Dumb Animals. 

Who can exaggerate the scenes possible in that 
hideous vehicle ? Instances of horrible brutality and 
physical outrage are of frequent occurrence, and every 
crip makes known its report of blasphemy and inde- 
cency, wicked and repulsive in the extreme. The 
Commissioners of Public Charities and Correction 
are good men and kind. They love their families, 
and give humane directions to their subordinates ; but 
what do they know of the actual life of the prisoners 
nominally controlled by them ? 

Take this very small part of the daily routine, the 
transfer of criminals from the temporary to the 
permanent prison. They see it done every day of 
the year ; they see the rude conveyance, the brutal 
keeper, the unfeeling driver; they know that men 
and women are crowded into the narrow, unventi- 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 6 1 

lated, stomach-turning coffin, like pigs — they know 
and see it all, as their predecessors did for thirty 
years before them, but they make no change, effect 
no improvement. 

And if there is this indifference to matters directly 
before their eyes, what are the probabilities of the ten 
thousand horrors concealed from their gaze, kept out 
of sight by cunning officers, or perpetrated when the 
superintending eye is turned away ? The holiday story 
of our public institutions is often told, and paraded 
at length in the columns of our papers, but the great 
everyday suffering — that’s as yet unwritten. 

The Warden’s quick eye saw the disgust pictured 
on John Hardy’s face, as sixteen hideous looking 
brutes were packed in the wagon, and turning his 
attention, said to Mr. Matsell : “ Well, Chief, it’s rather 
a novelty to see you down here. What’s up ? ” 

“That’s a fact, Quinn,” replied Mr. Matsell, “I 
really don’t believe I’ve been here before in six 
months. I know very little of the details of our 
office. It isn’t as it used to be. Bless my heart ! 
Why, in the old time the Chief knew everything, and 
did pretty much everything too. We didn’t have any 
political Board to bother us. The Mayor was head 
of the police, as he ought to be ; and head of every- 
thing, as he ought to be. But he never interfered 
with me. Many’s the time I’ve put on an old slouch 
and dove down amo j the roughs, wormed into their 


62 SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 

secrets, been arrested and taken in, and never found 
out till the magistrate ordered me to take off my hat 
in the morning. In those days, John, a Chief was a 
Chief. Talk about this uniform ; why look at that 
picture hanging in the office when you go back. It’s a 
picture of me in the old fashioned uniform, hat and all. 
That was a uniform, and it meant something too.” 

“ That ‘ twenty years ago ’ seems to stick in your 
crop, old man,” said Warden Quinn, as he gave a sly 
wink at the detective. 

“ Yes, yes it does,” said Matsell. “ The Mayor 
was saying to me only a few days ago, that with all 
our ‘modern improvements’ he thought there was 
really less security on the public streets now than 
there was then. It seems harder to get the right 
kind of men on the force. Politicians boss the whole 
job, and it’s simply impossible to move on the works 
of some of the worst criminals in the city, with suc- 
cess. They know all about our purposes about as 
soon as we do who make them. You’ll be surprised 
to know what I am here for now. Oh ! good morn- 
ing, Mrs. Foster.” 

This salutation was in honor of the matron of the 
prison for women, a good dame of perhaps fifty years 
of age, combining keen qualities of head with kindly 
graces of heart ; and as rigid a disciplinarian as any 
martinet in the army of tradition. 

Mrs. Foster has been matron of the prison thirty 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS . 63 

years. She is one of the few persons in New York 
official life who hold position on account of fitness. 
Wardens may come and wardens may go, but matron 
Foster holds on forever. With the unfortunate she is 
kind, as becomes a woman. With the vicious she is 
stern, as befits a matron. She tolerates no breakage 
of her rules, but looks with great favor on the erring 
sister who would be glad to do better. Mrs. Foster 
is not so famous as Florence Nightingale, but her 
sphere is as important and her mission as holy. 
Were she relentless and cruel, as many women are, 
she could make the Tombs a hell. Were she a 
gossip, as many women incurably are, she has it in 
her power to retail evil enough about New York to 
afford the press sensations for a decade. 

She’s no such person. 

Advancing* with a quick, elastic step, she cordially 
greeted her old friend the Superintendent, nodded 
hastily and pleasantly to the Warden and the de- 
tective, and invited them into her sitting-room. 

After a moment’s rest they passed through a narrow 
passage into the Female Prison, white and clean as 
constant scrubbings could make it, and chilly as a 
tomb. On the left of a contracted comdor were a 
number of small cells, most of which were empty. In 
one of them was a “ Drunk ” — a young hearty-look- 
ing woman, who, fighting and screaming, had been 
pushed in but a short time previous, and falling flat 


6 4 SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 

upon her face soon passed into a dull and heavy sleep. 
She was brought in, by a policeman, too drunk to 
care for anything or anybody ; naturally a good-hearted 
girl, gin made her a demon. 

She was full of it, and from her shapely lips fell 
such terrible profanity as made even the accustomed 
ears of the matron and her assistant, Mrs. French, 
shrink with disgust. 

Her bottle was taken from her pocket, and when 
the Warden and his guests looked through the iron 
grating her heavy snore resounded through the hall, 
and beastliness seemed perfectly disclosed. 

This is not the forum for a lecture on temperance 
— but that sight was a text from which lectures might 
well be drawn. 

It is true enough that women and children, as a rule, 
suffer from the intemperance of their husbands and 
parents, but no one who is unfamiliar with the police 
blotters of our station-houses, and the sad records of 
the lower courts, and the fearful scenes witnessed every 
day in every year by the prison officials, can under- 
stand the extent to which whiskey drinking is carried 
by the women of this generation. 

Surely intemperance is the Sin of the Time. 

Every fashionable saloon, has its patrons on whose 
tables light wines sparkle. At the parties of our 
“ best people ” wine is offered in the supper room, 
and young men find stronger stimulants ir? their 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 65 

retreat above. The lady who accepts the invitation 
of her friend to dance, finds herself in an all-embrac- 
ing aroma of punch or toddy. On the cars, one con- 
stantly sees little flasks .produced, turned up and 
emptied. Every hotel’s finest apartment is its bar 
room, made brilliant with gorgeous adornments and 
magnificent fixtures. From the earliest dawn of New 
Year’s morning to the last flicker of December’s stars, 
wine and rum, and whiskey and gin are regarded by 
many as Heaven’s best gifts to man. 

Pious men rent their stores for gin mills. 

Christian gentlemen pay their pew rent from in- 
comes derived from the traffic in liquor. 

And are women so different that the temptations of 
palate and physical sensation which fascinate men, are 
powerless over them ? 

Let the Tombs answer. 

Go to Blackwell’s Island and examine the sickening 
record. 

We have Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
Animals, and Associations for the Conversion of For- 
eign Heathens, but it seems to us that if ever there 
was a need for societies and associations now is the 
time, and this the sphere of operation.^ 

Old and young, male and female, are on the broad 
road to death and destruction, — and rum is the devil 
who leads them. 

Mrs. Foster’s iron steps were bright as a new dollar. 


66 SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 


At the head of the staircase is a circular corridor, 
white-washed and damp, from which open cells like 
those on the lower tier. In these are always crowded 
many girls, the majority of whom await trial, or are 
serving short sentences of ten to thirty days. Now 
and then one has a book or a paper, but as a rule, they 
sit or lounge all day and sleep all night ; the hardened 
and the beginners together, with no distinction of any 
sort or kind between them. 

It is all wrong — but how to remedy it is a huge 
problem. 

As the party passed along to a private reception- 
room at the end of the corridor, Mr. Matsell said : 

Mrs. Foster, I came down to-day more especially to 
see, if by reference to the old records, I could find out 
anything about a little boy who was lost twenty years 
ago this August. I was Chief at the time, but all I 
can recall is that the papers made quite a fuss about 
it, a small reward was offered, and nothing came of it. 
I thought there might possibly — but it really isn’t 
probable — be some clue from the books here. Ah ! 
here’s Mr. Findley with the record.” 

The keeper handed the Record-book to the Super- 
intendent, who adjusted his great gold spectacles and 
slowly turned the pages until he found the date. 

There were “drunks” and “disorderlies” by the 
score, two murders, a few burglaries, the customary 
allowance of milder offences, but no clue to a lost 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 67 

boy. Ordinarily there would be no sense in looking 
at the Tombs’ books for such a record, but it will be 
remembered that neither the police memorandum nor 
the coroner’s office furnished any information what- 
ever, and the only other chance was that little Harry 
had been taken directly before a magistrate and 
committed by him to the temporary care of the warden. 

Under the head of August 2 1st, appeared this entry : 

Name : James Delaney. 

Age : 45. 

Occupation : Builder. 

Residence : Stranger. 

Offence : Drunk. 

Sentence : 10 days city-prison, $10 fine. 

Remarks: When brought in had small boy, five 
years old, with him. Boy sent in to Foster. Dis- 
charged after two days’ detention, and fine remitted by 
Dowling. 

“ Let me see that,” said Mrs. Foster. 

Seizing the book the good old lady put on her 
glasses, ran her finger over the entry, and then gave 
a long whistle. 

“Bless my heart. That’s the same boy,” said she. 
“Why, French and I have talked that child over and 
over a hundred, yes, a thousand times. He was the 
dearest, sweetest little fellow you ever saw, and he no 
more belonged to that Delaney than I do. The boy 
seemed to like him, too, but there was something 


68 SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 

about them both that didn’t hitch. I had the little 
chap right in this room and I held him right in this 
chair. I rocked him on my lap, and all I could get 
out of him was 1 1 want my mamma,’ or ‘ where’s papa ? ’ 
He wouldn’t tell his name, except ‘ Bub’ or ‘Bob,’ so 
we called him ‘ Bob.’ I got Dowling to let the man 
go for the child’s sake — you can always manage Joe 
Dowling through his heart — and when they went off 
the fellow was sober and ashamed, and the tears stood in 
his eyes because they fixed him up a pass for Chicago, 
and a kit. Remember that boy ! I remember him 
as if he sat before me this blessed minute.” 

“ God bless my soul ! ” said Matsell. 

The Warden, though a kind-hearted man, was too 
much accustomed to sensations, to be particularly af- 
fected, but Detective Hardy, who was young and en- 
thusiastic, jumped at what he clearly saw was one end 
of a clue, which might lead him to professional suc- 
cess, and perhaps aid him in making an impression 
on the young lady at the Clarendon. 

Even while copying the record and making memo- 
randa of the matron’s story, John Hardy’s active im- 
agination was building castles in the airy future. 

He saw — what is there that young men and women 
do not see at such times ? — fame, fortune, success 
in all that makes life worth the living, all absolutely 
in one’s grasp, almost. How often we wake from 
sunny dreams, so real, so true, that they challenge 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 69 

physical experience itself in reality, only to find that 
they may be, but are not, true. 

But Hardy was hopeful. He had a royal physique. 
Every movement, from the flash of his eye to the 
tread of his foot, showed spirit. He thought quickly, 
spoke well, bore himself as became a man, never 
forgot his position, and was one of the few men in 
this queer world, who have sense granted them before 
they have wasted life, and lost its opportunities in 
experience. 

He knew perfectly well the social difference be- 
tween himself and Maud Russell, and that she had 
seen in him simply a means of bringing peace and 
comfort to her father’s heart. He knew that she 
cared no more for him than for the driver of her 
carriage. And, to do him justice, he had not as yet 
detected in himself any feeling deeper than that of} 
admiration for a very beautiful and winsome woman. 
But for all that, he was conscious of an influence, an 
attraction which made him think, and was gradually 
affecting his purposes and plans. 

Taking down all that the record disclosed, and 
making full notes of all that Mrs. Foster could recall 
concerning Delaney and the little “Bob,” Hardy said 
to the Superintendent that he thought he would go to 
the Hotel, and see Mr. Russell, although he would 
not be expected until eight in the evening. 

They parted at the entrance, the Superintendent 


SOME STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS. 


70 

going down to meet the Mayor, with whom he went 
every noon to eat clams in Fulton Market, and the 
detective to the Clarendon. 




i 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 

HN HARDY reached the hotel at four 
o’clock in the afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. 
Russell were out driving, but Maud, know- 
ing the arrangement between her step-father and the 
detective, inferred that this call must be a matter of 
importance, and directed the waiter to show Hardy 
to the parlor. 

When Hardy entered, Maud advanced to meet 
him with an eagerness born entirely of her interest in 
his mission. He was disappointed and pleased to 
hear that Mr. Russell was not in, but deeming discre- * 
tion the better part, simply said that he would call 
later, and made his adieu. 

As he left the room, a gentleman in the undress 
uniform of a naval officer entered, and greeted Maud 
with earnestness and evident delight. Hardy looked 
long enough to see that the interest was reciprocal, 
and with a muttered disgust hurried away. 

Holding Maud’s hand in his, William Templeton 



THE SHAKE IN THE GRASS. 


72 

. drew the fair girl to a seat in the window, partly con- 
cealed by the heavy drapery, and sat beside her. 

“Well, dearest,” he began, “is it true at last? 
Have I really found you, and is it possible I hold 
your dear hand in mine, uninterrupted for a moment ? 
Really, it seems too good to be true.” 

Maud smiled sweetly, and after a moment's linger- 
ing, drew somewhat away from her ardent lover, 
and laughingly said : “ There, Will, that must do for 
now ; how fortunate that you should see me here ; do 
you know who that person is I was talking with ? 
He’s a detective, and is going to help father find his 
little boy.” 

“ His little boy ? ” echoed Templeton. 

“Yes, his little boy, lost ever so many years ago,” 
replied Maud. “Papa hasn’t seen him in twenty 
years, and he’s determined now to find him, if it’s 
a possible thing.” 

“Well, don’t waste time in talking about little 
boys,” said Templeton. “ If he has as hard a time 
in finding a son, as I have had in trying to find a father, 
I pity him, that’s all.” 

William Templeton was a waif. 

J 

He was found in a Massachusetts work-house by a 
benevolent party of Boston. 

By him he was taken to the Hub, educated and 
fitted for college. When the civil war fever broke 
out, William was fond of the water, and begged his 


THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


73 

friend to get for him a commission in the navy. He 
did so, and the lad entered the regular riavy as en- 
sign, and at the end of the war ranked as Lieutenant, 
with an unusual record, creditable to him as a man 
and a sailor. 

His protector died shortly after, leaving him a small 
fortune. The lieutenant went to Europe on leave of 
absence, and on his trip home met and admired Maud 
Russell. 

Together they promenaded the Cunarder’s deck 
long after the old folks had “ turned in.” 

The moon, the skies, the ships in the distance, the 
astronomical perplexities, the sea serpent, the phos- 
phorescence in the water, the gulls and the passengers 
were for them a never-failing source of interest and 
conversation. 

She became entangled. Her affections went out 
toward this stranger, and he was greatly taken with 
this charming English girl. 

Men are curious creatures, and take the oddest 
possible fancies. 

Everybody on that good ship liked William Temple- 
ton except Horace Russell, and Horace Russell was 
the only man for whose good-will William Templeton 
cared the toss of a copper. 

When Maud or his wife appealed to him to be 
more courteous towards Templeton, Mr. Russell be- 
came insanely angry. He gave no reason for his dis- 
4 


THE SHAKE IN THE GRASS. 


74 

like, all he knew was that he would not like him, 
and he forbade his wife and daughter even to speak 
to him, in the improbable event of his crossing their 
path after reaching the city. Mrs. Russell’s influence 
over her husband was great, because she rarely exert- 
ed it. He was a good man, and although very set in 
his ways, was never deaf to sensible argument. 

In this matter Mrs. Russell quietly told her husband 
that his opposition to Lieutenant Templeton’s steamer 
attentions seemed rather strained. The man held a 
position of honor, and was well spoken of by every 
one who knew of him among the passengers, and as 
he would doubtless soon have his own affairs to attend 
to, it was not likely they would be in any way embar- 
rassed by him. 

Mr. Russell was not convinced, but he was silenced, 
and as Maud, who was really very fond of her new- 
made friend, was wise and prudent enough to avoid 
any scene that might annoy her father, there was no 
further cause of trouble on the voyage. 

Templeton was a brave officer and a bad man. 

In the service he was esteemed for the qualities 
that endure under privation and trial. He had won 
his way unfavored by politicians, the bane of every 
public department, and his theory of life had condens- 
ed into one hard maxim : Let every man take care of 
himself. 

With all his bravery and pluck, in spite of his good 


THE SHAKE IH THE GRASS. 


75 

nature and happy-go-lucky manner, he had a weak- 
ness. 

He loved money. 

No man ever made fortune honestly in the service 
of' his country. Templeton was not morally above 
certain grades of dishonesty, but he had never been in 
position to take or speculate, or falsely audit ; he had 
his pay, and a very meagre income from the estate of 
his adopted father ; but the most rigid economy would 
not make him rich, and he hated economy. 

He was about twenty-six years of age, and at a time 
when most men are trustful and genuine, had become 
suspicious and deceitful. 

He deliberately planned his future, basing it on a 
marriage with money — give him the money, and the 
rest he was willing to risk. 

He saw Maud, he liked her; he thought her the 
daughter of the rich manufacturer, and believing her 
to be his heir, resolved to win her. 

Introductions at sea are easily obtained, and when 
Miss Russell and Lieutenant Templeton bade each 
other “ good-night,” after their first introduction, they 
were as well acquainted as many people would be only 
after many years of friendship. 

Maud was a queer combination of prudence and 
indiscretion. She had just passed her eighteenth 
birthday, was bright, sweet-faced, and elegant in man- 
ner. She had the air of a beauty and the innocence 


THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


76 

of a pet ; she idolized her mother, and Mr. Russell 
had found in her the most loving of children. 

But she was fond of admiration, and so fond of it 
that a close observer could see that she catered for it. 

Some men and women are born flirts, and flaunt 
their purposes before the public eye, careless of the 
world, and reckless of its opinion, so long as their own 
“ good time ” is assured. 

Maud was not one of those. She shrank from 
vulgarity of manner, or vulgarity in display, as quickly 
and as naturally as from rudeness of speech. And 
yet there was a curious boldness about her which 
manifested itself in an over desire to please, the 
motive being, whether she knew it or not, to gain 
thereby the flattering income so grateful to her. 

She was as gracious to the steward as to the cap- 
tain ; she met the detective with the same smile that 
beamed on Templeton. Compliments pleased her, 
come from where they might. And if a beautiful face, 
a distinguished air, and a kind heart with a winning 
smile, would not elicit compliments in society, what 
would ? 

She had had but little attention at home ; indeed, 
there were but half a dozen families in the town, and 
the Russells, though well-informed and living in good 
style, were not on visiting terms with the older 
county families. 

Still Maud knew something of life, and her regular 


THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


77 

trip to London brought her more and more, year after 
year, into the cauldron of social excitement. She 
read some, was fond of music, played the piano toler- 
ably well, rode dashingly, and was esteemed an ac- 
quisition at the parties she attended. 

Of course she received at such times much atten- 
tion. 

Every woman has more or less of it, and it is by no 
manner of means determined either in quality or 
quantity by the prettiness of the face. There are 
thousands of doll-featured girls who go through life 
without attention ; and in what circle do we not find 
a plain face the recipient of all the courtesy and civil- 
ity possible. It is evidently what there is behind the 
face that attracts. 

However, Maud was very beautiful and winning as 
well. Her manner was bright and jolly, her heart 
sunny, her general air that of contentment. She was 
greatly pleased with the attentions of her friends, but 
she had never met a friend who had taken such per- 
fect and all-absorbing possession of her as William 
Templeton. He seemed to know by intuition what' 
were her desires, and he never hesitated to gratify 
them. 

In spite of the dislike of Mr. Russell, Mr. Temple- 
ton found frequent opportunities to be with Maud 
on the steamer, and when they reached New York, 
although no formal engagement had been made, both 


THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


78 

felt that their betrothal was but a question of time and 
prudence. 

% As they sat together on the sofa, Maud becoming 
apprehensive of her father’s return, said : “ Why can’t 
we go out for a walk or a drive ? It is so long since 
I have seen you, and I have so much to say to you.” 

Templeton was only too glad to go. He rang the 
bell, ordered a carriage, and Maud went to her 
room. 

The Lieutenant believed Maud to be not only the 
daughter, but the only child of Mr. Russell, who 
always spoke of her and to her as “-daughter,” so that 
her remark about the “little boy” meant more to 
Maud’s lover than she could have imagined, or he 
would care to have known. 

He was very fond of Maud, but fond or not, he 
had determined to marry her, and thus gain her 
father’s wealth. 

Presently she appeared, perfectly equipped, and 
leaving the Hotel by the 18th street exit, entered the 
carriage and drove off towards the Park. 

“Maud, tell me about this ‘little boy’s’ busi- 
ness,” said Mr. Templeton. “What is it, who is he, 
any way, and how is it I never heard about him be- 
fore?” 

“Well, I declare, Will, that’s rather a long 
string of questions, I should say,” replied she ; “ but 
as we have plenty of time, and you are so good as to 


THE SHAKE IN THE GRASS. 


79 


give me this delightful drive, I’ll tell you all about it. 
And then, too, if you only could help us, papa would 
love you just as I do.” 

She then gave Templeton a narration of the story 
so familiar to her and the reader, and by the time 
they had reached the Mt. St. Vincent Hotel in the 
Park, he had mastered it all, and was quite prepared 
to say to Maud : “ Suppose we stop here for an ice ; ” 
and to himself, “ this is just precisely my luck. I 
only wanted this to m&ke assurance doubly sure. 
Three cheers for me — and the ‘ little boy ! ’ ” 


% 




CHAPTER XIII. 

A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 

g|?|gi|HE evening of this bright summer day was 
8K gpi full of events. 

•——— — i. Lieut. Templeton had secured a pledge 
from Maud Russell, that she would consider herself 
his betrothed, and him, her accepted lover. 

As yet, and indeed until Mr. Russell’s antipathy 
could be conquered, the engagement was to be secret 
from her family. 

2. Detective Hardy had made his report to the 
Russells, and found to his surprise that the stern, 
quiet-mannered Englishman, was a perfect fire of 
enthusiasm, kindled into flame, and outburst by the 
meagre story the detective had to tell of his morning’s 
gleanings. 

3. Mr. Russell had outlined a plan of operations, 
including an immediate trip to the West, the offer of 
a large reward through the Chicago police, and such 
other operation as a review of the ground might 
suggest. 

4. And last, but by no means least, Maud in her 


A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. gi 

good-night letter to her lover, wrote to Templeton 
every word reported to Mr. Russell by the detective, 
as well as the entire programme for the future. 

Bidding Mr. Russell and the ladies good-night, and 
promising to take the anxious, father to see Mrs. 
Foster early the next day, John Hardy pulled his soft 
hat over his eyes, lit a cigar, and moved slowly down 
4th avenue. Just as he reached 14th street, he was 
accosted by a gentleman,' who, touching him on the 
shoulder said : “ I beg your pardon, sir ; are you 
Detective Hardy ? ” 

There was no reason for Hardy’s denying his name, 
and yet his professional caution was on the alert, and 
his suspicions were aroused. Hastily glancing at his 
companion, he was about . to answer, when the light 
from a street lamp disclosed the handsome features 
and manly figure of Lieut. Templeton. The detec- 
tive placed him at once, but pretending not to, replied : 
“ Yes, sir, that’s my name. What of it ? ” 

“That depends,” rejoined Templeton. “If you 
have half an hour to spare, come with me, and we 
will discuss a matter of some interest to both of us — 
and perhaps of profit. Where shall we go— Del- 
monico’s ? ” 

“ No Delmonico’s for me ! ” said Hardy. “ That’ll 
do well enough for pleasure. If you want to talk 
business, where you can be as noisy as a Bedlamite, 
or as quiet as Greenwood, come with me.” 


82 


A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION, 


“ I’ll do it,” said Templeton ; and he did. 

A short ride on a 4th avenue car took them to 
Houston street, and a shorter walk led them to the 
door of Harry Hill’s noted resort for all sorts and 
sizes of pleasure seekers of New York and vicinity. 

Passing through Hill’s wonderful stable, where he 
keeps trick ponies, educated dogs, and wonderful sheep, 
and through the dimly lighted bar-room, they reached 
a flight of stairs which led to the concert-room. 

Templeton had never been there before, and 
wanted to linger ; but to the detective it was an old 
story, and calling Harry Hill, a stout built, cheery 
faced Englishman, to him said : “ Harry, this gentle- 
man and I have a little matter of business to talk over. 
Let me have the use of your parlor for a few 
moments : that’s a good fellow.” 

Harry Hill took a good look at Hardy’s compan- 
ion, shook his head as if half in doubt, and preceded 
the two to the room. 

The average man living in New York knows about 
Harry Hill’s saloon; its Punch and Judy, its dancers, 
and singers, and boxing matches; its free and easy 
opportunities for safely seeing a great deal of what 
young men call “ life ; ” and the fact that it is one of 
the regular “ shows ” of the city. But probably not 
one in five hundred of Harry Hill’s visitors could 
correctly picture even the outer characteristics of the 
proprietor’s inner home. 


A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 83 

Pictures of prize-fighters, fancy sketches of noted 
boxers, bronze horses, flash story-books, foils and 
gloves, brass knuckles and billies were the parapher- 
( nalia which rose before Templeton’s mind, when he 
; thought of the probable adornments of the home of 
Hill. As matter of fact what Templeton saw was as 
follows : Two very fair specimens of Kaulbach’s 
skill, several fine photographs, and one or two 
admirable English engravings hung on the walls ; 
in one corner was a small boudoir book-case bear- 
ing standard literature from the Bible to Hume, 
from the book of Common Prayer, to Byron and 
Thackeray ; in another a larger table and desk, fitted 
with writing materials, and ornamented by curious 
Japanese ware ; in the centre was a handsome round 
table, with books and cigar case, while two doors 
opening outward disclosed a dressing-room and a bed- 
chamber. 

Templeton was astonished. Mr. Hill saw the 
look, and smiling, said: “A trade’s a trade, my 
friend. ‘ ’Arry ’111 ’s one thing ’ere and another there. 
That’s all,” and shutting the door left the two men to 
their business. 

Neither cared to begin, but Hardy, lighting a fresh 
cigar, threw himself on a lounge, and Templeton was 
forced to take the initiative. 

“ Mr. Hardy,” said he, “I am a friend of the 

Russells, and aware of their plans. They are in 
a* 


84 A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 

search of a little boy Mr. Russell lost some twenty 
years ago. And I am that boy.” 

“What ! ” cried Hardy, and jumping from his seat 
like a greyhound, banged his hand heavily on the 
table, and stared through Templeton’s eyes dow.n to 
his very soul. 

“ Don’t make a noise, man,” continued the Lieu- 
tenant, “ you would do yourself greater credit if you 
listened. I say, I am that lost boy, and you can 
prove it — if you care to. Old Russell has heaps of 
money, and can be bled like an ox, for anything that 
is genuine. He loved his child, lost him carelessly, 
left him cruelly, and mourns him sincerely. I know 
he would spend $100,000 to find that son. And I 
think if you were to find him, your fortune would be 
insured. Now listen. I can satisfy you that I am 
Russell’s son, and your business will be to convince 
him. Is it a bargain ? ” 

For a moment Hardy was nonplussed. He had 
met many rascals in his police experience, and had 
worked out many a plot, but the cool impudence and 
suicidal audacity of this putter-up of villainy, eclipsed 
all previous examples of the kind. 

He thought rapidly, and concluded it would be 
well “to lay in” with Templeton until the plan was 
ripe. Nothing could be gained by bluffing him; 
much might be learned by pretending to work with him. 
After a brief pause, he said : 


A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 85 

“ I don’t know you, sir. Are you quite certain you 
can satisfy me ? ” 

“ Of course I can,” replied Templeton with a cun- 
ning smile ; “ of course I can, and I’ll agree to put it 
off for six months too. How will that suit your royal 
highness ? ” 

“Perfectly,” rejoined Hardy; “you have my ad- 
dress. I shall be in town two or three days, and then 
we’re off to Chicago. Come in and see me when 
you’re ready to talk finally ; — and now let’s see what 
Harry has to show us to-night.” 

Together they passed into the saloon, and taking 
seats at one of the little round tables, made part of a 
large and laughing audience, listening to the jokes and 
songs of the character-people on the stage of Harry 
Hill’s. 




CHAPTER XIV. 


FIRE, FIRE, FIRE. 



HAT night Horace Russell seemed a boy 
again. Long after his customary hour of 
retiring, he walked his parlor, talked ear- 
nestly and rapidly of his plans, read and reread the 
slips cut from the papers of twenty years back by his 
former wife, told for the one hundredth time the story 
of little Harry’s loss, and worked himself and Mrs. 
Russell into a state of excitement bordering on frenzy. 

Maud had long since kissed them both good-night, 
and went to her room to write to her lover. 


With her long, soft tresses hanging over the bed, she 
was a pretty picture, when her mother, entering the 
room, found her on her knees in prayer. 

Folding her in her loving arms, Mrs. Russell said : 
“ Darling, don’t think to deceive your mother. You 
are more deeply interested in Lieutenant Templeton 
than you care to confess. Tell me, darling, is it not 
so ? and if so, let me know exactly how you feel, and 
what your relations are with him. Conceal nothing 
from your best friend. Tell your mother all.” 


FIRE, FIRE , FIRE. 87 

Maud, as we have seen, was bright and quick, 
even pert and almost forward at times, but she was 
truth itseif in speech, and this one secret of her heart 
was all she had ever sought to keep from the mother 
she idolized, and for whom nothing could be good 
enough. 

She had promised Templeton to be his wife, and 
to keep her promise secret. 

What should she do between her mother and her 
lover. 

Right was with the mother, but might seemed to 
be with the lover. 

“ Has he told you that he loves you, dear ? ” said 
Mrs. Russell. 

“ I know he does,” evaded Maud. 

u And how does my darling know so much ? ” 
continued Mrs. Russell, as she pushed a little closer 
to the citadel ; “ did he tell you to look in his heart 
and see ? ” 

“ No, darling mamma,” replied the girl, “ he didn’t 
say that, but please, mamma, don’t ask me any more 
questions. I cannot tell you ; really, I cannot say 
another word. I do love him, mamma. He’s as 
brave and noble as he can be, and he loves me so 
dearly. Don’t be angry, mamma darling. Don’t be 
angry. We can wait, you know, ever so long ; and 
besides he’s going to help find little Harry. He said 
he would, and he will ; and if lie only could find him 


88 


FIRE, FIRE, FIRE. 


and make papa happy, what a splendid thing it would 
be for all of us. And he likes you too, mamma ! ” 

“ Mrs. Russell smiled faintly at her daughter’s en- 
thusiasm ; but, taking her head in her arms, she 
pressed her warmly to her heart, apprehensive for the 
future, for she knew the feelings and passions and 
bitter prejudice of her husband. 

“ Come, my dear,” called Mr. Russell from the 
parlor, “ you mustn’t keep daughter awake all night. 
Let her go to sleep. Good-night again, little girl.” 

Mrs. Russell rejoined her husband in his planning, 
and it was quite one o’clock ere the consultation 
ended, and even then they were undecided whether it 
was better to go to Chicago, or start the search in 
New York city itself. 

The entire hotel was resting quietly at three o clock 
in the morning, when the cry of “ Fire ! Fire! ” startled 
the sleepy watchman on the corner of the avenue, 
and a policeman, who was resting against the iron rail, 
actually knocked three times for help before he 
opened his eyes. 

Smoke was rushing in volumes from the upper win- 
dows. The story below that was in flames. 

Clerks ran hastily through the house to arouse the 
people, servants were driven from their rooms in 
the attic, children were bundled out of the house, and 
efforts were made to save the baggage of the guests. 
The adjacent streets fairly hummed with excitement. 


FIRE, FIRE , FIRE. 


89 

Crowds thronged about the firemen, the engines 
puffed and snorted and whistled, while the quick buzz 
of the wheels made merry tfiusic on the air. 

If there is any one thing existing which resembles a 
fully developed, fiery devil, with wings of flame and 
a blazing tail, it is a modern fire engine as it flies to 
the scene of disaster, with its bells and whistle, and 
steam, and smoke, and screams, and dash of speed 
along the streets. 

Half a dozen of these wonderful machines were at 
work, and the conflagration was largely under con- 
trol. Still the building was burning, and great clouds 
of smoke overhung it and permeated every room. 

Mr. Russell had been, for many years, in the habit 
of waking very early in the morning. As regularly as 
the seasons in their course, Horace Russell rose 
every morning of his life at three, looked over at his 
mills, drank half a glass of water, looked at the mills 
again, and resumed his sleep. 

When at sea, his mind worked the same way. 

And in pursuance of this habit, he woke on this 
morning just as the porter in the lower hall discovered 
the smoke. By the time the other guests were fairly 
awake, Mr. Russell had his wife and Maud down- 
stairs, and was hurrying them into the street, when 
Maud, eluding his hand, slipped by him and ran in 
the direction of their rooms. 

Half wild with fear, Russell did not at first know 


FIRE, FIRE , FIRE. 


90 

what to do ; finally, and quickly, however, he gave his 
wife in charge of an officer, and directed her to walk 
down toward the Everett House, while he flew to 
find Maud. The halls and staircase were flooded 
with smoke. Guests rushed down-stairs half-dressed, 
with such things as they had hastily caught up. The 
hotel people were shouting and directing. The police 
were in the way as usual, and the firemen worked 
like heroes. 

If ever men earned their pay, these fire laddies of 
the paid department earn theirs, and ought to have 
it promptly. 

Blind with the smoke, half paralyzed with apprehen- 
sion for Maud’s safety, and really anxious about her 
mind, Mr. Russell felt his way to their apartments. 
They were filled with dense, black, stifling smoke. 
Groping to the window, he stumbled and fell on the 
body of his adopted daughter. Desperate, and half 
conscious only, he instinctively grasped her in his 
powerful arms, and sought the door. 

Had he overestimated his strength ? 

Possibly, but not his love. 

Love for the dear girl who had caressed, his weari- 
ness to sleep at the close of many an anxious day, 
who had brought sunshine to his heavy heart in many 
a time of gloom, gave him inspiration, and he achieved 
in an automatic way, half heedless of what he was 
about, an act of heroism which, under other circum- 


FIRE, FIRE , FIRE. 


9 T 

stances and for another person, would have made him 
famous. Staggering towards the door he fell. Half 
rising, he dragged the unconscious girl on and down 
the single flight of stairs separating their apartments 
from the ground floor, step by step, till together they 
attracted the attention of men at the entrance, and 
the cheery voice of John Hardy said: “Brace up, 
Mr. Russell, brace up, old man ; it's all right, brace 
up.” 

And he did brace up, but, overcome with smoke 
and excitement, fell exhausted on the stones. 

Hardy had turned for a moment to give some direc- 
tions to his partner, as they called the detective who 
worked with him, but seeing that Mr. Russell could 
no more “brace up” than Maud could jump up, he 
extemporized a litter for them both, and had them 
carried along through the crowd down to the Everett 
House, where Mrs. Russell had ordered rooms, and 
was waiting pluckily to meet them. 

Mr. Russell soon revived, and after a glass of 
brandy felt quite like himself, and wanted to see 
Maud. 

But Maud had been put to bed, and in her hand, 
tight grasped, her mother found the cause of her re- 
turn to her room — a little gold brooch in which was 
a picture and a lock of curly hair. 

The picture was Templeton’s ; so was the hair. 



CHAPTER XV. 

TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 

E next morning, Mrs. Russell, overcome 
with excitement and fatigue, slept late ; and 
Maud, who had been tended during the night 
by her mother, rested at her side. 

The detective called at ten o’clock, and finding 
Mr. Russell in the reading room, was surprised and 
delighted at his freshness and vigor. Together they 
walked to the Clarendon, arranged for a transfer of 
the luggage, which was in no way injured, and then, 
in pursuance of their agreement, drove to see Matron 
Foster at the Tombs. 

The good woman was very cordial in her greeting, 
and gladly rehearsed the story of little “Bob,” adding 
that it would be the happiest day of her life when she 
could see him restored to his father’s arms. 

Mr. Russell was deeply affected both by the story 
and the interest Mrs. Foster exhibited in the fate of 
the child ; but he did not conceal from himself the 
great improbability of a successful search for a boy 



TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


93 

whose life for twenty years had been withdrawn from 
his knowledge, nor the greater improbability that 
“ Bob ” should in reality be the Harry of his heart. 

Nevertheless, in the absence of other suggestion, 
he determined to adhere to his scheme, and go with 
Hardy to Chicago, even if Maud and her mother were 
unable to leave the city. 

After an interested examination of the prison, Mr. 
Russell bade Mrs. Foster “ good-morning,” and, accom- 
panied by the detective, turned towards the door, 
when, quick as a flash, the sturdy officer dashed into 
a reception room just inside the iron gate and rail. 

Ashe did so, Lieutenant Templeton handed a pass 
to the gate keeper, and walked over towards the 
female prison. 

“Did you see that man ? ” said Hardy. 

“ No,” replied Mr. Russell. “ That is, I did, and 
I did not. I saw some one come in, but was so 
thunderstruck by your rushing off that I paid no 
attention to him. Why, who is he ? ” 

“That’s just what I want to find out?” rejoined 
Hardy. (i You go on to the hotel ; wait there until 
you see me. Just take the yellow car, tell the con- 
ductor to let you out at the Everett House, and 
you’re all right. Excuse me now ; every minute’s an 
hour.” 

Mr. Russell did not precisely see the force of what 
Hardy said, but though somewhat dubious in his mind 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


94 

as to the propriety of the young man’s conduct, did as 
he was directed, and soon regained the hotel. 

Hardy went at once to Warden Quinn’s room, 
borrowed a uniform, put on a belt and cap, and with 
baton swinging from his wrist, re-entered the prison 
yard, and walked quietly over to the Matron’s office. 

Fortunately he met her as she was leaving the wash- 
house. Accosting her, he said : “ Don’t start, Mrs. 
Foster ; I’m Hardy, the detective. I have a point to 
make here. There’s a gentleman in your room who 
wants to see you. If I happen to seem rather curious, 
take no notice of me. I’m on business.” 

The sagacious woman twinkled her eyes in token 
of comprehension, and quickly entered her office. 

As she did so, Lieut. Templeton rose from his 
seat, and advancing with great politeness, extended 
his hand, bowed, and said: '“This is my old friend, 
Matron Foster, at last. And not a bit changed, 
either. How kind you were to me, and how often, 
when a boy, I added to my lisping prayer, ‘ God bless 
Mamma Foster.’ Do you not remember me ? ” 

“Remember you?” said Mrs. Foster. “No, I 
don’t. How should I ? I never saw you before. 
What do you mean ? ” 

Mrs. Foster is no fool. She has had her eye-teeth 
cut these many years. She is sympathetic, but not 
at all credulous. Real suffering elicits her condo- 
lence and aid ; but bogus complaints could never 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


95 

jvring a tear from her, if they were to try a thousand 
tyears. 

She didn’t “take” to this honey-dropping gentle- 
man. He was altogether too grateful, and his grati- 
tude came rather late in life. Had he found her at 
last ? Why, for thirty years she had not left her post ! 
Every day of every year she had opened and shut her 
room. She is never sick ; never away ; vacations 
are an unknown quantity to her, and as for sleep — 
well, they do say she never sleeps ; but that is prob- 
ably not so. 

“ No, I don’t remember you. Who are you? ” said 
the robust Matron. 

“Who am I? Why, I am little ‘Bob,’” said 
Templeton. “Surely you remember little ‘Bob’ to 
whom you were so kind in this very room, now twenty 
years ago.” 

“ Little ‘ Bob ’ ! ” cried Mj-s. Foster; “ little ‘ Bob ! ’ 
little fiddlesticks ! My little ‘ Bob ’ had no such snake 
eyes as you’ve got, nor such hair, nor such — oh, don’t 
bother me. If that’s what you came here for, you’ve 
lost your time. I don’t know you, and I don’t want 
to.” 

“ But hear me, madam ; I have proofs of what I 
say,” said Templeton, now thoroughly alarmed. 
“ And it may be worth money to you to help me, too. 
I have reason to believe I have found my dear father, 
and your aid is indispensable to me.” 


9 6 TROUBLE 'IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 

Just at this juncture, John Hardy, in policeman’s 
dress, appeared at the door. 

“ Here, officer,” said Mrs. Foster, “ just tramp this 
party out of here. He’s made a mistake. He belongs 
in the male prison, I guess, and if he had his deserts 
he’d go there.” 

Hardy raised his cap. 

Templeton looked up quickly, turned black as his 
boot, and muttering a curse, hurried rapidly by his 
tormenter toward the gate. 

Hardy stopped him by a whistle, and then taking 
him into the Warden’s office, said : “ Mr. Templeton, 
I give you just four hours in which to leave New 
York. If I catch you here after that, I’ll go for you ; 
and what that means you know. Now, get out.” 

And he got out, right away. 

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Russell were dining in 
their parlor, and Maud, still very weak, was reclining 
on a lounge, thinking of Templeton, longing to see or 
hear from him, and wondering how it could be pos- 
sible for her to convey to him information of her 
situation, and the necessity of his being content 
not to see her until she should be able to get out 
and about, when a servant handed Mr. Russell a 
letter. 

Not having seen the detective since his singular 
conduct at the Tombs, Mr. Russell was wondering 
why he did not hear from him, when the letter was 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


97 

brought in. Without looking at the address, Mr. 
Russell broke the seal. 

He read a sentence, turned the page, read again, 
and then, with a face white with rage, went to the 
door, opened it, shut it, looked at the feeble girl upon 
the lounge, and sank despondingly in his chair. 

Maud’s eyes were closed; her soul was with Tem- 
pleton. 

But her mother saw her husband’s passion, and 
knew that nothing but his love for Maud kept him 
quiet. 

“ What is it, Horace ? ” said she. 

“ Read that,” said he ; “ read that, and see what 
an infernal scoundrel you’ve cherished between you. 
Oh, that I had him here ! Oh, that I had him here ! ” 

His raised and excited voice roused Maud from 
her reverie. 

She, too, knew her father’s ungoverned passions and 
trembled when she saw them upon him. Her sweet 
voice rarely failed to calm him, and her gentle 
caresses were many a time and oft the- balm which 
brought peace and comfort to a disturbed circle and 
a troubled mind. 

“ Why, papa darling,” said she, half rising from her 
position; “ what has happened? Don’t look so 
black ; tell me, papa, what is it ? ” 

“What is it?” replied Mr. Russell. “ What is it? 
You’re it. Your mother’s it. Heaven only knows 
5 


9 8 TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 

who isn’t it. I must think this out. It puzzles me. 
I can’t understand it. I leave you together. When 
I return, I must and shall know all.” 

Without another word the angry man left the room. 

And he left two sad, and crushed, and sorrowful 
hearts as well. 

The mother, heart-sick for her daughter ; and the 
daughter, conscious only that something terrible had 
happened, but what she knew not. 

As the door closed, Mrs. Russell caught her daugh- 
ter in her arms and, wild with grief and apprehension, 
said : “ Sweetest, you cannot wonder at your father’s 
anger, nor at his anxiety. This letter is from Lieut. 
Templeton to his betrothed bride. Think of it.” 

“ Give it to me, mother,” said Maud ; “ how dared 
he open it. Mother, give it to me ; I” — but she could 
go no further. 

Her mother bathed her head, and kissed and sooth- 
ed the young girl’s temper down. 

Then together they read 

THE LETTER. 

Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York, August 21 , 1873 . 

“ Maud, my darling, my own betrothed, I have but 
a moment to write you and I have volumes to tell you. 
I have heard, darling, of your night of peril, and although 
I cannot see you, I understand that you are quite 
well, though weak to-day. I have to leave town at 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


99 

once. Danger, of which I cannot safely write, threat- 
ens me. I had hoped to be of service to your father, 
but it cannot be. I leave, and leave at once. Con- 
sider, darling, my proposal. You are virtually my wife. 
Why can you not be so absolutely ? If you are strong 
enough, andean manage to elude the vigilance of your 
over-anxious mother for an hour do so, and meet me 
in the corridor near the ladies’ entrance. I will be 
prepared with a carriage, and in half an hour’s time my 
sweet-heart will be my bride, — my darling will be 
my wife. I beg you will not, at this crisis, hesitate or 
yield to scruples which can only delay what must hap- 
pen sooner or later. You love me, do you not ? Then 
prove it. Bear in mind, darling, that I must leave 
town. Shall I go alone ? And if so, may I not at 
least carry the picture of my wife with me ? I can 
think of no mode by which I can be informed of your 
purpose, so I will, at all events, go to the rendezvous, 
and trust to the promptings of your loving heart for 
a favorable response. And till then, sweet one, dar- 
ling, adieu . 

“ Ever yours, 

« W. T.” 

“Great Heavens! Papa will meet him, and” — 
Again Maud fainted, and her thoroughly frightened 
mother threw water and lavished kisses upon her until, 


IOO 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


half dead with fear, she opened her eyes, and whisper- 
ed, “ Save him, save him ! ” 

Mrs. Russell was not a woman of the world, nor a 
society-woman in any sense. She was born in New 
York City, and at the age of thirty-four was a widow, 
with a daughter six years old. With the child she 
went to Europe, traveled two years, met Horace Rus- 
sell, then a widower, at the house of a London friend, 
and at the time of the present occurrence, had been 
Mrs. Horace Russell ten years. 

She was a clear-headed, kind-hearted woman, very 
fond and proud of her husband, and idolatrously de- 
voted to her daughter. Like her daughter, she was 
the incarnation of truth, and nothing of whatever 
moment or consequence had ever been, or could ever 
be, a temptation to one or the other to swerve even by 
a look from the line of perfect veracity. 

But here was her daughter — and there was her hus- 
band. 

Without a word, she kissed Maud on the forehead, 
left the room, and passing quickly down the private 
stairway, stood near the ladies’ entrance, her figure 
partially concealed by the curtain of a window. 

Would he never come ? 

Moments seemed ages, and her courage was oozing 
fast when the well known form of Lieut. Templeton 
appeared at the head of the staircase. 

A slight movement of the curtain attracted his watch- 


TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


IOI 


fill attention and, in a moment, he was at the side — not 
of the loving daughter, but — of the indignant mother. 

It was a study for an artist. 

But there was no artist there ; only two embarrass- 
ed and mutually anxious individuals, neither one know- 
ing precisely what to do or say. 

Presently Mrs.. Russell, with fire flashing from her 
eyes, said : “Mr. Templeton, we thought you were a 
gentleman. We find we were mistaken. For my 
daughter’s sake, and that there may be no scene be- 
tween you and my husband, I came here to tell you 
you that we decline all further acquaintance with you, 
and to assure you that no member of our family has 
the slightest desire to see you again. Now go, and 
go quickly, unless you care to meet Mr. Russell, for 
there he comes, and with him the detective.” 

Without a word, Templeton, who was thoroughly 
alarmed, hurried away, while Mrs. Russell quietly re- 
gained her room, and drawing Maud’s arm through 
hers, gently led her heart-broken daughter to the 
privacy of their chamber — and what passed there, we 
may imagine, but certainly cannot know. 



\ 



CHAPTER XVI. 

WHAT NEXT? THE PROGRAMME. 

Mr. Russell so abruptly left his wife 
Maud in the parlor, he had no definite 
before him, but having read enough of 
Templeton’s letter to get a general idea of love and 
an engagement, and only so much, he saw the abso- 
lute necessity of his being alone for a few moments, 
ere he trusted himself to speak. 

He understood his own passionate nature thorough- 
ly, and being very anxious about Maud’s physical 
condition, wisely and kindly checked his outburst and 
simply left the room. 

His meeting with Hardy at the door was purely ac- 
cidental, and without alluding either to Templeton or 
his letter, Mr. Russell entered at once upon a discus- 
sion of their Chicago plan, as together they passed 
within twenty feet of his wife, on their way to the 
general parlor. 

Hardy was in trouble. 



HEN 

and 

plan 





THE PROGRAMME. 


103 

He had seen but little of Mr. Russell, but he liked 
him, and was interested in his mission. Still he knew 
so little of the man, that he was in doubt as to the ad- 
visability of telling him about Templeton’s proposal 
at Harry Hill’s, and the expose at the Tombs. The 
detective felt competent to manage Templeton in 
any scheme he might attempt, and as yet knew noth- 
ing of the condition of affairs in the family. He had 
seen Maud and Templeton together and had noticed 
the warmth of their greeting, but the only thought 
suggested by that, was the difference between Temple- 
ton’s social opportunity and his own — a thought which 
had often made him curse the world, which, even in 
republican America, is disposed to be sensitive on so- 
cial points. 

Hardy’s maxim was: “When in doubt, hold your 
tongue;” and, being in doubt, he obeyed that 
teaching, believing that if at any time it became 
necessary to bluff, outwit or confront the plotter, he 
-had the game in his own hands. 

Unsuspicious, then, of Templeton’s design upon his 
fortune, Mr. Russell, as calmly as he could, canvassed 
the possibilities of a search at the West, while Hardy, 
uninformed of the new development that had upset 
the peace and harmony of his employer, quietly 
aided him. During the interview, Hardy presented 
this programme for Mr. Russell’s action, as the best 
he could, after consultation with the Chief, suggest : 


io4 


THE PROGRAMME. 


THE PROGRAMME. 

1. Obtain official letters of introduction from the 

mayor and police to the Chicago authorities. 

2. Obtain personal letters to people of prominence 

from the New York correspondents of Mr. Rus- 
sell’s mills. 

3. Go to Chicago with Hardy, secure a local detec- 

tive, offer privately or through the press, a small 
reward for information, leaving all negotiations 
in the hands of Hardy and the western officer, 
and then be guided by circumstances. 

“ That’s not very long,” remarked Hardy, “ but it’s 
the boilings down of many an hour’s thought. The old 
man has given time and consideration to this matter 
astonishingly. If ever you want to interest Matsell, 
just connect your subject with something that oc- 
curred twenty or thirty years ago, and he’ll jump in 
lively.” 

“Well,” replied Mr. Russell, “it seems sensible. 
The only point is that we seem to be giving up New 
York altogether. This ‘Bob’ search may be a farce 
and result in a fizzle. If so, we waste our time and 
throw away our money — although, to be frank about 
it, money is really no object. Do you know, Hardy, 
that boy of mine would be, must be, twenty-five years 
old now ; just about as old as you, and I fancy I would 
like to find him as true and sensible a man as you ap- 


THE PROGRAMME. 


105 

pear to be. God knows I have but the one wish upon 
my heart. I miss him all the time ; I think of him, 
dream of him, talk to him — but always as my baby, 
my Harry boy of twenty years gone by. 

“Come, come, this won’t do ; I’ll see Mrs. Russell 
and the doctor. As soon as they say Maud may 
travel, off we go. 

“Now, Hardy, I need hardly assure you of my 
earnestness in this life-work. I trust you. In any 
event your reward shall be ample ; but if we succeed, 
your heart’s desire shall be granted — I’ll make you 
rich and independent for life. Now go, my friend, 
learn all you can from the prison people, and get all 
needed letters from Mr. Matsell ; I’ll attend to the 
rest. Good night.” 

Hardy bade Mr. Russell “ good night,” and Mr. 
Russell went to get it. 

He found the gas brightly burning in the parlor, 
and the door of Maud’s room shut. He entered his 
own chamber. The bed was undisturbed ; evidently 
his wife was with her daughter. Knocking gently at 
Maud’s door, Mr. Russell waited for an answer. 

None came. 

He softly opened the door and on tip-toe ap- 
proached the bed. Fast asleep in her mother’s arms 
lay the beautiful girl, with flushed cheek and eyelids 
wet with tears. 

Mrs. Russell’s eyes were wide open, but she dared 
3 * 


106 WHAT NEXT ON THE PROGRAMME. 

not stir lest Maud should be disturbed. She saw 
love in her husband’s smile, and as he bent over her 
to press a father’s kiss upon the “ daughter ” of his 
heart, though not of his race, Mrs. Russell whispered : 
“ Good night, father ; I will stay with Maud — she is 
very nervous, but all will be well. Good night.” 

For a moment Horace laid his hand upon her brow, 
then kissed her tenderly, and, without a word, left the 
weary and the comforter together. 






CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SCENE SHIFTS. THE TEMPTER AT WORK* 

IEUT. TEMPLETON drove quickly to 
the Fifth Avenue Hotel, purchased a 
through ticket for Chicago by the morning 
express, paid his bill and left orders to be called in 
time for breakfast and the train. 

The evening he occupied in looking through all his 
papers, and deliberating as to what was best for him 
to do with his commission. He was liable at any 
hour to be ordered on duty, and resignation after the 
receipt of orders would not be tolerated : or rather it 
would subject him to such criticism in naval circles 
as he would not care to brave. And then, too, it must 
be borne in mind that Templeton was not so foolish 
in his ordinary life as he has shown himself in dealing 
with Hardy. He doubtless believed that the average 
policeman, of whom Hardy was a type, had only to 
be approached, to be secured. A bribe, he thought, 
would never be refused unlessilt were too small, and 



io 8 THE TEMPTER AT WORK. 

he had purposed making his offer to Hardy so tempt- 
ing as to be irresistible. 

He failed. 

What Hardy, or the average officer might do under 
some circumstances we know not, but Templeton’s 
manner was unfortunate ; his time was badly chosen, 
his plan was too startling — and, besides, the detective 
had warmed towards Mr. Russell, and the sweet face 
of Maud was constantly before his eyes. 

Having failed with Hardy, Templeton’s next hope 
was to work on Maud’s affections through her fear 
for his personal safety, induce her to marry him, and 
then leave or take her with him, as might seem best 
at the time. 

He failed in that also. 

Had the letter been handed to Maud, it is quite 
certain she would have met her lover ; and had she 
gone, weak, nervous and unsettled as she was, it is 
more than probable she would have yielded to his im- 
portunities, and placed herself at his disposal, and 
brought desolation on her mother’s heart. 

From that she was spared, but at what a cost ! 

Failing in his second endeavor, Lieut. Temple- 
ton bethought him of a third and better scheme. 
He knew Mr. Russell perfectly. And he was well in- 
formed of the plans, as arranged in general by Hardy 
and Russell before the morning of the fire. With 
this in mind he was di&ussing the advisability of re- 


THE TEMPTER AT WORK. 


109 


signing his commission in the service, that he might 
risk all he had in one desperate venture — a claim to the 
right and title of Horace Russell’s son. 

He took time to think of it, and pondered it well 
before he decided. 

He then wrote his resignation and had it mailed at 
once. 

His trunks were packed, his travelling preparations 
made, his bed ready. 

And he slept like a boy till the porter called him 
to rise. 

In due time, Templeton reached Chicago and on 
the following day placed himself in communication 
with the detective office at police headquarters. 
Securing an introduction, through a hotel clerk, to 
Charles Miller, or, as he was there more familiarly 
known, “ One-eyed Charley,” he made an appointment 
with him at the hotel, at which time, as he told him, 
he would lay before him a matter directly in the de- 
tective’s line of business, and in which there was “ big 
money.” 

One-eyed Charley was a character, and not alto- 
gether a good one. He was very much esteemed by 
his superiors, his intuition being remarkably clear and 
his experience great. He knew all the regular, thieves 
and professional men well. His twenty years’ deal- 
ing with the counterfeiters, and burglars, and minor 
rascals of the Mississippi Valle? had educated him to 


no 


THE TEMPTER AT WORK. 


a point of sharpness and cleverness that entitled him 
to higher rank in the office than he ever held, but he 
had risen as far as he could, for gin was his failing, 
and rum was his delight. 

Half the number of sprees in which Miller indulged 
would*have “ broken ” a less useful man. He knew 
it, and accepted his lot without a murmur. It was 
rumored, now and then, that there were other potent 
reasons for the lack of promotion, but they never rose 
above a whisper ; for much as men might suspect, 
fear of Miller’s vengeance kept the tongues of his bit 
terest enemies quiet. 

He had two daughters, the only living beings foi 
whom he cared the value of a rush — for whom he sav- 
ed what he could ; and that was by no means incon- 
siderable. 

Physically, he was ugly. His head was well cover- 
ed with a reddish thatch ; in a fight he had .lost his 
left eye ; his face was badly marked with traces of 
small-pox, and in stature he was* tall when he sat, and 
short when he stood. Morally he was queer ; he be- 
lieved in no God, no heaven, no hell, no future of any 
kind ; his motto was “ keep all you get, and get all 
you can.” Mentally, he was shrewd and quick ; shrewd 
enough to see that, in his business, honesty, as a rule, 
was much the best policy, and quick enough to see 
when he might safely serve a dishonest purpose with 
profit to himself. 


THE TEMPTER AT WORK. 


Ill 


And this was the man who called on Lieut. 
William Templeton at his elegant apartments, in pur- 
suance of an agreement made at the general office. 

Templeton saluted Miller, as he entered the room, 
with : “How are you, my friend ; what will you take to 
drink ? ” 

“Well, sir,” replied the detective, “I don’t mind a 
stiff rum and gum, after we’ve finished our talk ; but 
if you mean business, defer the refreshments till busi- 
ness is done. My chief clerk is my brain, and liquor 
is his worst enemy.” 

“ All right,” said Templeton, “as you say; but you 
surely Will let your chief clerk have the flavor of 
a good cigar under his nose, won’t you ? ” 

“ Yes. I don’t object to that ; but I really think as 
how that curious creature would very much prefer a 
pipe, if it’s handy,” rejoined Miller; and, suiting the 
action to the word, drew from his pocket a common 
clay pipe, filled it with “horse cut,” lit it, and puffed 
vigorously. 

“ Now, young man, as the widder said, pitch in, 
and what you’ve got to say, out with it.” 

Templeton eyed him closely. 

Under any circumstances he would have done so, 
but his experience with Hardy had taught him a les- 
son, and he meant to profit by it. 

He eyed him closely, and concluded he would do. 

Miller preten ] ed not to notice the scrutiny, but he 


1 1 2 


THE TEMPTER AT WORK. 


saw it all, and made up his mind that there was devil- 
try in the air, and he meant to profit by it. 

Pulling from his pocket a huge wallet filled with 
papers, Templeton settled himself in his chair and 
opened the ball. 

“ Mr. Miller,” said he, “ 1 have a long story to tell 
you, and I want you to listen to it carefully, profes- 
sionally, and in my interest. To that end I hereby 
retain you, and ask, is it a bargain ? ” 

With this he laid five $20 bills up6n the table, 
pushed them over to Miller, and waited for his reply. 

Miller puffed quickly, counted the bills carefully, 
stuffed them in his vest pocket, nodded to Templeton, 
and simply said, “ Go ahead.” 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

TEMPLETON’S STORY. 

NTIL yesterday,” began Templeton, “T was 
a lieutenant in the navy. My resignation 
was forwarded last week, and last night’s 
mail brought me official notice of its acceptance. I 
see you think a man who has so pleasant a berth is 
foolish to get out of it. Well, possibly, but I have 
two strong motives, and one equally a motive but not 
so strong. 

“ First, I want money. 

“ Second, I want a father. 

“ Third, I want a wife. 

“The way to each and all of these, I believe, lies 
through my resignation, whereby I am left free to 
prosecute a plan, in the outwork of which I need your 
'aid. 

“ Don’t misunderstand my position. I am not poor. 
In any event I can abundantly compensate you. My 
game is higher and my prize greater. 

“ Who I am, no one knows. 





TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


114 

“ Where I came from, no one can tell. 

“ I may be the son of a beggar, and I may be heir to 
^one of the largest employers in Great Britain. I 
have chafed under my assumed name of William Tem- 
pleton till my mind is sore, and, at times, the very 
mention of it makes me wild. . I hate it. I hate its 
origin and everything connected with it. 

“ As near as I can make out, I am thirty or thirty-one 
years of age. I run back connectedly until my tenth 
year, _as follows : thirteen years I have been in the 
service ; four years I was at college and three years I 
was preparing for college under the protection, and at 
the home, of a good-natured Bostonian who found me 
sick and homeless, and with no other name than ‘ Bill/ 
in the workhouse. 

“ Prior to that, and young as I was, I had been a 
‘ bum.’ Nothing that you know by observation of the 
life of a homeless boy, can equal what I knew by daily 
experience. I’ve been through it all. I blacked boots, 
sold papers, ran errands, slept under stoops, in ash 
barrels and over steam escapes, eat when I had food, 
and bore hunger when I had none. Dirty, half-clad, 
bare-footed, often never washed, on the Island in New 
York, in the Tombs, known to the watch, and often 
sick, I led the life of a vagabond as long as I can re- 
member.” 

“Well, I’m blowed,” interrupted Miller. “Say, 
stranger, do you know, I like you. Pitch in again.” 


TEMPLETON' S STORY. 


“5 

Templeton who was too much in earnest to smile, 
or to welcome the interest, proceeded. 

“ I have a vague memory of stowing myself on a 
schooner, but whether it was accidental or intentional, 
I don’t know, and of being very ill. From then, until 
I found myself in the hospital . of the workhouse near 
Boston, I recall nothing. I have had of late a pleas- 
ant life. My associates were gentlemen. Society is 
always open to a uniform ; and then, too, I prided 
myself on my record. At college, although among the 
youngest, I ranked well and my protector was so 
pleased with my general progress that he left me his 
property when he died, from which I have a small 
annual income. ( 

I see the power of money — and I want to wield it. 

“ I see the advantage of family connection — and I 
think I see my way to it. 

“ I have met a woman whom I love : and through 
her boundless love for me, I see the clue to both fam- 
ily and wealth.” 

“ Well, if you’ve got it all down so fine as this, where 
do I come in ? ” said Miller. 

“Are you a Mason ?” asked Templeton. 

“ No, I ain’t,” replied the detective ; “and I don’t 
want to be. I can keep a secret . better than any 
Mason can, if that’s what you mean.” 

“Well, that was not what I meant,” rejoined Tem- 
pleton, who was wondering in his mind whether Hor- 


n6 TEMPLETON'S STORY. 

ace Russell’s high rank in Masonry could in anyway 
baulk his plans. 

For several minutes neither spoke, and then, as if 
inspired, Miller jumped up, and, resting his two hands 
on the round table, over which blazed four fan-tailed 
jets of gas, he looked his companion full in' the eye, 
and said : “ Stranger, there’s something on your mind, 
and you don’t do justice to the subject. When you go 
to a doctor, you tell him just what’s the matter, don’t 
you ? Well, then. And when you go to a lawyer you 
tell him the whole story, don’t you ? Well, then. Now 
you’ve come to me. This cash is my fee. State your 
case. If I like it, I keep the cash and go on. If I 
don’t like it, I keep the cash and step out. That’s all. 
How old are you, anyhow ? Don’t be a boy.” 

Templeton smiled at the idea of his being a boy,' 
for he felt as if he had had about two hundred years 
of experience in the ruggedest paths of life, but he 
naturally hesitated to repeat the mistake he had made 
with Hardy, and preferred to feel his way more cau- 
tiously with Miller. 

Fearing to lose a hold on him, however, and with a 
desperation born of the reckless adventure before him, 
Templeton determined to lay the case in detail before 
the detective, and trust to luck to get it out plausi- 
bly and successfully. 

Taking a cigar from its case, he walked to the man- 
tel, struck a match, lit his weed, and, leisurely return- 


TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


117 

ing to his seat, apparently resumed his narration, as 
though there had been no interruption. 

“ This woman whom I love,” said he,“ is the daugh- 
ter of an enormously wealthy Englishman. His name 
is Russell. He owns and runs immense mills and fac- 
tories in the interior of England, and is said to be 
worth five or six millions. He used to live in Michi- 
gan, and has, like most men, a romance. 

Twenty years ago he lost a son in New York, and 
he is fool enough to believe that he can find him now. 
He has no clue to his whereabouts. He knows abso- 
lutely nothing of him. He is in New York now, with 
his wife and daughter, and, before long, is coming to 
Chicago with a New York detective to look up an old 
party who was sent out here by the authorities, having 
with him a boy somewhat answering the description 
of Mr. Russell’s child. Of course he can’t find either 
of ’em — unless we help him ! 

“ I believe I am that boy. 

“ You believe I am that boy. 

Ci And we must make him believe I am that boy. 

“ What do you say ? ” 

Miller said nothing for a moment, 

Then he pulled from his pocket an oblong shaped 
document, and, opening it carefully, read it to the as- 
tonished Templeton, as follows : 


n8 


TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


Headquarters Police Department, 
Chicago, August 30 th, 1873. 

Sir : — -In conformity to the enclosed request from 
the Superintendent of the New York police, you are 
hereby directed to place yourself and services at the 
disposal of Horace Russell, Esq., who, accompanied 
by Officer Hardy of the New York force, is expected 
to reach this city some day this week. You will report 
daily at these headquarters. 

Per order of the Chief, 

J. G. Nixon, Clerk . 

To Detective Miller. 

The enclosure, a copy of a letter from Supt. Mat- 
sell to the Chicago Chief, read as follows : 

Department of Police, 
New York, August 2 5th, 1873. 

Sir : — Mr. Horace Russell, a reputable and respon- 
sible gentleman from England, in company with detec- 
tive Hardy of our force, will call on you in the course 
of a week or ten days, advising you by telegraph the 
day before, for aid in a matter of some delicacy and 
importance. I am desired by the Mayor to say that 
any assistance afforded Mr. Russell, will be well be- 
stowed. We have done what was possible here and 
have assigned him the keenest man in the detective 
bureau. Whatever expense is incurred, Mr. Russell 


TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


119 

will defray. Commending him to your professional 
and personal regard, I am 

Very respectfully, 

Geo. W. Matsell, Sup't Police . 

To Chief Police, Chicago. 

The fire died away from Templeton’s cigar. 

But the fire in his eyes fairly glowed with excite- 
ment. 

“ What do you think of that ? ” said Miller, as he 
replaced the documents in his pocket. “ Ain’t that a 
stunner ? How’s that for a lone hand ? ” 

Every nerve in Templeton’s body was alert. He 
was in Miller’s power for good or ill. With him, for- 
tune was assured ; without him, he was worse off than 
ever. What to say he knew not. 

Miller paced the room for some time. 

Then he stopped as if he had been shot. 

Turning quickly, he said: “For Heaven’s sake, 
man, do you really care anything for that girl?” 

“ Of course I do,” said Templeton ; “ and, what is 
more, she is my affianced bride, and it’s only an acci- 
dent that she’s not my wife.” 

“ Why, don’t you see that you’re to be her brother, 
you fool ? ” shouted Miller. 

“ Great God ! I never thought of that,” said the as- 
tonished Templeton, and he sank back in his chair, 
utterly dumbfounded. 


120 


TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


Had he known that Maud was Mrs. Russell’s 
daughter by a former husband, his perturbation would 
have been less — but that was something he had yet to 
learn. 

Miller quickly brushed that aside, and evincing even 
more interest in the plan than Templeton had dared 
to hope, said : “ Now, my friend, this sort of thing is 
new to you, very evidently, for you have told me noth- 
ing whatever of your relations to the Russells, nor 
how you became informed of their purposes.” 

Templeton then made a clean breast of everything, 
and gave a clear and connected report of his acquain- 
tance with the family on shipboard, his betrothal 
with Maud, his gleanings from her of Mr. Russell’s 
loss and search for little Harry, and, last but not least, 
his wily endeavor to bribe Hardy, before he had really 
laid out his plan of operations or knew how to utilize 
him. 

“And this Hardy is the same ‘ Officer Hardy’ re- 
ferred to in these orders,” said Miller. 

“Certainly,” replied Templeton. 

Taking a sheet of paper from Templeton’s port- 
folio on the table, Miller rapidly wrote, crossed out, 
wrote again, read it carefully, aud then said : 

“ Templeton, I like you. Nevermind why ; but I 
do. Some time I’ll tell you. I think I see my way 
here. But there are three embarrassments. 

“ And you are the chief. 


TEMPLETON'S STORY. 


121 


“ Detective Hardy is the next. 
il And that sweetheart is the third. 

“ You must all be got rid of, or the plan won’t work 
at all. Now, my idea is this : 

“ First, I’ll take you out of this elegant crib, and 
give you less ample quarters in the Hotel de Miller. 
You’ll have to keep as snug as a bug in a rug. If 
Hardy finds you in Chicago, up goes our job. I’d 
send you away, but there’s no telling when you may 
be needed. It’s worth a little trouble, anyhow. So 
if you agree to it, to my house you go, and in it you 
stay till I say “ come out.” 

“ Second, If Hardy, can’t be bought — and that’s 
ticklish, if what you say is true — he must be man- 
aged. Of course, I’ll have a big pull on him, as I’m 
assigned to the job, and if I don’t corner him, he must 
be tolerably wide awake, and New York is too small 
a place for him ; he must stay in Chicago. 

“ Third, I hate to interfere with women. So I 
won’t say anything about the girl till she gets here, and 
I’ve got the cut of her jib. 

“ Now, what do you say? I’ll get in for $1,000 cash 
down, and will take your word for $10,000 more, pay- 
able six months after you’re the accepted son of Hor 
ace Russell. Is it a go ? ” 

“ It is,” said Templeton ; “ and now what will you 
take ? ” 



•6 



CHAPTER XIX. 

ONE-EYED CHARLEY AT HOME. 

ft 

T ten o’clock of that evening, a carriage 
drove up to the door of detective Miller’s 
modest home ; one of the neatest and pretti- 
est cottages, near the lake. One might easily imag- 
ine it to be the “ideal home” of a happy family, 
whose head and father devoted himself and all his 
better energies to humanizing his race, and elevating 
his kind. It stood in the centre of a well-kept en- 
closure, about fifty feet from the road, and attracted 
the attention of every passer — it was so clean, and 
cosy, and inviting. 

From the open door-way, a flood of light shone 
upon the walk to the gates, and thence upon the 
street. 

Miller hastily jumped from the carriage, and, while 
Templeton followed, assisted the driver in taking the 
luggage off the box, and into the house. 

“ Why, father, how late you are,” said a sweet voice 
at the head of the stairs ; “ and we thought you were 



ONE-EYED CHARLEY AT HOME. 


123 

lost,” said another, while a pair of round arms em- 
braced the detective’s burly figure, and a pair of 
pouting lips gave him a cordial welcome home. 

, Mary and Martha Miller were twins, and had been 
partners in this vale of tears and smiles eighteen 
years. Their mother, a wise and careful Scotch wo- 
man, died when the children were ten years of age, 
leaving them to the curious care of “ One-eyed 
Charley” — abroad, a rough; an indulgent father at 
home. 

Chicago’s schools are Chicago’s pride, and of the 
many pupils graduated in the past ten years, none 
have better records, none stood higher than the pretty 
daughters of this ugly featured man ; and no father 
in all the great assemblage was more nearly choked 
with joy and pride than “ One-eyed Charley,” when 
his girls received their blue-ribboned diplomas, and 
joined the class chorus in honor of their Alma Mater. 

He was a strange compound, this Charley Miller. 

On the very threshold of a great crime, with an ac- 
complice at his side, his mind full of a nefarious 
scheme, and his thoughts burdened by his plan, he 
smilingly greeted his daughters, affectionately kissed 
them, was really delighted to be at home, and looked 
forward to a few hours’ rest and domestic relief, 
with satisfaction and delight. 

His life had been hard and bad. 

His companions were often the vilest of the vile. 


124 


ONE-EYED CHARLEY AT HOME. 


He prided himself on knowing all the rascals in 
the Westj and if report was to be credited, he was 
not unfairly classed with them. 

But his wife loved him when living, and blest him 
as she died. 

And his girls — they fairly idolized him, and mani- 
fested their regard, in every way known to loving wo- 
man and ingenuous children. 

Miller entered the parlor, followed by Lieut. 
T empleton. 

Mary and Martha stood near their father. 

“ Girls,” said he, “ this is an old friend of mine. 
His name is Harry Russell. He will stay with us for 
some time, and none must know of his being here. 
Ann, the cook, can be relied on, as she has been 
for twenty years ; and, when I tell you that it’s for my 
sake and in my interest, that this gentleman shall be 
made to 'feel at home,’ and that his being here is not 
to be talked about, that ends it. * Mr. Russell, these 
are my daughters. This is Mary, and this is Martha, 
the best girls in the world ; not so pretty, perhaps, as 
their old dad, but quite as good.” 

Templeton bowed pleasantly, and, as he did so, 
wondered how it was possible to tell which was Mary 
and which w&s Martha. There was not a discover- 
able difference in the color of their hair, the calm 
beauty of their eyes, the shape of their features, or 
the style of their figures. 


ONE-EYED CHARLEY AT HOME. 


I2 5 

“We will see that your room is in order, Mr. Rus- 
sell/’ said Mary, as she left the parlor. 

“Would Mr. Russell have anything to eat, fa- 
ther?” said Martha. 

“Nothing for me, I assure you,” replied Tem- 
pleton ; “we dined late, and I am so very tired that I 
shall welcome most of all a hospitable bed.” 

Presently Mary returned, saying that Mr. Russell’s 
room was in readiness, and bidding the young ladies 
•"goodnight,” Templeton and Miller carried their 
trunks up-stairs. 

The room assigned the new guest was not large, 
but very comfortable and well furnished. From the 
front windows, he had a perfect view of the broad 
calm l£.ke, on which a magnificent harvest moon was 
gloriously shining, and froni the side he could look 
upon one of America’s greatest marvels, a vast and 
populous city, striving with zeal for supremacy in all 
that is enterprising and beneficent, and cursed with 
extremist temptations to vice, and the widest oppor- 
tunity for every species of debauchery and sin. 

Templeton had an eye for the beautiful, and gazed 
long at the silvered lake, ere he unpacked his “room 
trunk ” and prepared for rest. 




CHAPTER XX. 

SHE WAITED PATIENTLY. 

sun was high in the heavens when Maude 
d her mother greeted Mr. Russell the day 
:er the scene at the table, and it was evi- 
dent to all that an embarrassment lay upon their in- 
tercourse. For the first time since her mother’s mar- 
riage, Maud did not look Mr. Russell in the eye 
when she greeted him. She was not ill-tempered, 
but she felt hurt, and could not understand the ex- 
tremity of her father’s antipathy to Templeton. 

After a rather uncongenial hour at breakfast, Mr. 
Russell walked to the window where Maud was 
standing, and putting his arm about her, drew hei 
towards him, and said : “ Daughter, I cannot bear to 
have the least shade of trouble between us. Let us 
be perfectly frank and truthful with each other, as we 
ever have been, and see if, in any way, we can come 
together on this subject, which seems to be very near 
your heart, and which has given me more anxiety 






SHE WAITED PATIENTLY. 


127 

than all my business cares for years. Your mother 
tells me you love this man.” 

“Oh, father, darling, I do, I do!” interrupted 
Maud, and bursting into tears, she threw her arms 
about her father’s neck and sobbed upon his breast. 

This was more than Mr. Russell had bargained for, 
but, remembering Hardy’s advice at the time of the 
fire, he “ braced up ” and bore it like a man. 

After a little the paroxysm passed, and Mr. Russell 
continued : 

“ I am quite willing to concede,” said he, as, like 
all fathers, he prepared to yield a point he could no 
longer hold, “ that Lieut. Templeton is a fine-looking, 
well-behaved person. I find his record in the navy 
is exceptionably good, and although I can learn 
nothing of his family antecedents, he is a man 
of some property, and generally liked by his asso- 
ciates. But I don’t fancy him. Why, I cannot tell; 
but I never see that man without a shudder. I’ll 
say nothing about his letter to you. You are old 
enough to know your own heart ; and what rea- 
son he had for believing that such a proposition as 
he made would be acceptable, yo.u know better 
than I. I have talked the matter over with your 
mother, who is your guardian, and the- only one in 
authority over you — for, although I love you as if 
you were my own flesh and blood, I remember always 
that I can only advise you — and we have concluded 


128 


SHE WAITED PATIENTLY. 


that you may, if you choose, invite Mr. Templeton to 
call here this evening. We will receive him pleas- 
antly, and if he then makes any formal proposition 
for your hand, I will answer him precisely as if you 
were my own child, asking such questions as a father 
with propriety may ask, and putting him on such 
probation as is both decorous and just. And then, if • 
all is well, my darling shall have her heart’s desire, 
and all my prejudice shall be whistled to the wind. 
How does my plan please you ? ” 

Maud’s generous nature appreciated the sacrifice 
her father was making on the altar of her love, and 
thanked and kissed him again and again. 

The three were as happy as mortals could be. 

At Mr. Russell’s suggestion, Maud wrote a note 
to Templeton at once, and sent it by a messenger to 
the Fifth Avenue Hotel. 

Stupidly, the boy simply left it at the counter, and 
the clerk on duty not knowing that Templeton had 
gone, placed it in his box. 

Of course, Templeton did not receive it. And 
equally, of course, as hour after hour passed on, and 
her lover failed to answer her summons, which she 
hoped would be to him both a surprise and delight, 
Maud’s feeble physique drooped, and when the late- 
ness of the hour showed the folly of further expecta- 
tion that evening, she threw her head upon her moth- 
er’s lap and cried most bitterly. 


SHE WAITED PATIENTLY, \ 


129 

Neither Mr. Russell nor his wife could furnish 
apology, excuse, or reason for Templeton’s absence. 
They shared Maud’s disappointment to a certain ex- 
tent, and the constant strain upon her nerves made 
them anxious for her health, which, of late, had be- 
come less firm than when at home. 

During the evening Hardy called, but, as between 
them, nothing had ever passed in reference to Tern^ 
pleton, the perfect explanation he could so easily 
have given was not made, and a cloud rested on the 
entire group because of the absence of a man, whose 
presence* to-day, four hours before, would have 
created a perfect storm of indignation. 

As Hardy started to leave, he said : “ How soon 
do you think you will be able to go West, Mr. Rus- 
sell?” 

“That depends on Miss Maud entirely,” replied 
Horace. “We can’t afford to have a sick daughter 
on our hands ; can we, darling ? ” 

Maud looked up mournfully enough, and said : 
“ Go when you wish, father. I’m ready to-night, if 
you say so.” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense ! ” broke in Mr: Russell. 
“What you’ll do to-night, is sleep. A good night’s 
sleep will bring you out as bright as a button, and to- 
morrow we’ll take a drive in the Park. By Monday 
next I think we’ll be all right, Hardy. Some friends 

of mine arrived by the steamer to-day. We dine to- 
6 * 


130 


SHE WAITED PATIENTLY. 


gether to-morrow. Next day I’ll get my letter of 
introduction, and you be prepared with your share by 
Sunday at the latest. We’ll take the earliest train on 
Monday morning. Good-night, my boy, good- 
night ! ” 

Hardy bade them all “good-night,” and walked 
away full of wonder. 

On his way up town he stopped at the Fifth Ave- 
nue Hotel, inquired of the clerk if Lieut. Templeton 
was still there, and learned that he had gone West 
that morning. 

“Gone West!” thought Hardy. “What under 
heavens does that mean ? It isn’t possible that he 
would be so foolish as to try to cut in again. But 
no ; that’s too absurd ! ” and, dismissing the matter 
from his mind, he lounged easily up the avenue. 




CHAPTER XXI. 

JOHN HARDY’S STORY A SUDDEN STOP. 

LEASANTLY seated in a Pullman car, the 
Russells and detective Hardy sped swiftly 
on their way to the wonder of the West, 
the pride of Illinois. It was a beautiful morning, and 
the perfect ventilation of the car kept the party com- 
fortable, in spite of the excessive heat of the day. 

Mrs. Russell was a good traveler. 

She was burdened with no surplus luggage. A strap 
held her wraps and those of her daughter ; a small 
valise contained the needed changes of apparel on the 
road, and by her side were books and papers for en- 
tertainment or relief. 

“ What time are we due at Chicago, Hardy,” said 
Mr. Russell. 

“ The schedule time,” replied Hardy, “is 5.30 ; but 
I understand we have lost time, and may not be in 
till an hour later. I' can’t say that I care much, for 
the scenery is beautiful, and now that we are accus- 




JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


132 

tomed to the motion of the cars, it’s almost as pleas- 
ant here as anywhere. I’ve been thinking for the last 
hour or so about that boy of yours. What a life he 
may have led ! Perhaps he has had everything ‘ dead * 
against him, and possibly he has been helped from the 
very start. I know how it is myself, and I tell you it 
makes' a great difference to a fellow whether he pad- 
dles his own canoe or is towed along by a tug.” 

“ If it’s a fair question, Mr. Hardy, which was your 
lot,” asked Mrs. Russell. 

The detective colored up a little, and glanced 
across the seat at Maud, who was half listening to 
the conversation, and half gazing at the clouds which 
kindly shielded them from the fierce rays of the boil- 
ing sun. 

As Hardy looked at her, she smiled, and said : “ Oh, 
yes, Mr. Hardy ; do tell us all about your life. It 
must be a perfect marvel of romance and adventure. 
I should dearly like to hear it.” 

“ In many respects,” said Hardy, “ I have had an 
easy life ; in some a very hard one. . My business is 
peculiar, and leads one into queer scenes and among 
odd people now and then. But, as a rule, I see the 
same kinds of human nature in men and women you 
do, and find life in any one sphere is not so very dif- 
ferent in motive from life in any other. I have a lit- 
tle property, but I had a very humble origin. I hard- 
ly like to tell you that my father was a scavenger, but 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


*33 

he was ; and he was as good and true a man as ever I 
knew ; kind and indulgent, though very reticent and 
not at all informed about matters which interest or- 
dinary men. I was the only child, and, of course, had 
my own way. I really can’t remember much about 
my childhood, and what I do recall is so strangely 
mixed up with fancies and fables that it is not at all 
satisfactory. I think the first event I reriiember, now, 
is having a blue suit with bright buttons, one exhibi- 
tion day at school, and speaking a piece before quite 
an audience. Queer, isn’t it? One would imagine 
that he’d remember some- toy, or playfellow, or a 
thrashing, or some out-of-the-way thing ; but I can 
see father and mother sitting in the Hall, as distinctly 
as if they were here this blessed minute. 

“ Mother was a quaint old body. 

“ Her Johnnie was the apple of her eye, and the 
core of her heart. 

“'And how she did sing ! 

“ I can see and hear her sing now. She was a great 
Methodist, and she had all the camp-meeting tunes 
and songs at the end of her tongue all the time. 

“ I never knew father to speak a cross word to her 
or to me, and I never saw a frown on mother’s face 
till the day of her death. 

“ I don’t give much evidence of it, I know, but I 
was always ambitious and successful at school, and 
especially when I saw that it tickled father so. Every 


l 3 4 JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 

time I received a medal he went wild. Every time 
my teacher gave me a book, or my report’ was partic- 
ularly good, he acted as if a new heaven was opened 
to him. I don’t look a particle like either of ’em. 
I have a very fair picture of mother in my room, but 
we never could persuade father to sit for one. He 
seemed superstitious about it. When he died, I was 
a messenger in the chiefs private office. I was only 
seventeen, and had been there going on two years, 
when one of the neighbors’ children came running over 
to headquarters — we lived right round, the corner — 
and said : ‘ Johnny Hardy, run home as quick as you 
can, your father’s got a fit.” I rushed into the police 
surgeon’s room, g&t Dr. Appleton, and hurried home. 

“ 1 was just in time. 

“'The good old man had fallen in a fit at the corner 
of Prince and Mulberry streets, and was taken home 
by people who knew him. As I entered the room he 
opened his eyes and smiled. I was very fond of him 
and he of me. Said he : ‘ Johnnie, boy, look out for 
your mother. Be a good boy ; be a good boy, John- 
nie,’ and falling back, died almost immediately. 

“ The doctor said it was apoplexy — and perhaps it 
was. 

“ He left mother comfortably provided for, and then 
I had my pay every week, so we got along nicely, but 
not for long. 

“ You see they had lived together forty- two years, 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


135 

and had grown in and about each other’s nature so 
that when one was torn away-^-and so suddenly, too — 
the other had to follow. 

X 

“ She wanted to follow. 

“ I saw it pained mother to think of leaving me, but 
all through her illness she thought and spoke of hard- 
ly anything else but her meeting and rejoining father. 

“ Well, she died too. 

“ In a little while I was transferred to one of the 
bureaus as clerk ; and, as soon as I was old enough, I 
was made an officer. 

“ I didn’t like it. 

“ There’s too much ‘ red tape ’ and ‘ boss ’ business 
about it. And a man: has no chance tor promotion 
unless he has friends, and friends are of no use unless 
they are politicians. I saw enough of it. Politicians 
keep men from being ‘ broken ’ every day in the year. 
They put them on the force, and keep them there, 
too. However, I was lucky enough to do some detec- 
tive work, in which my mother-wit helped me very 
much more than my experience did, and I was detailed 
to detective work altogether. I can’t say I like it, but 
I find it pleasanter than being in the club brigade. 
But I’ve seen some queer sights in my time.” 

“ Did you ever have anything to do with a real 
murderer ? ” said Maud. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed,” laughingly replied Hardy ; 
“murderers are not always such dreadful people to 


1 36 JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 

deal with. Not very many years ago, I was one of 
five men put on a murder scent, and it occupied us 
three months constantly. The victim was a very .pld 
lady, rich and much, respected. She was killed in 
her own bedroom, one summer night ; and the room 
exhibited signs of a violent struggle. After a sensa- 
tional funeral we were sent for and given our in- 
structions. Each man had his^ theory. Burglars, or 
interested parties, must have done the deed. Nothing 
had been stolen, so I dropped the burglar idea. I 
believed the woman was killed accidentally by some 
one who, for some occult purpose, was in her room ; 
and then, surprised, for fear of detection, did a deed he 
was very loath to do.” 

“Well, well, go on,” said Maud. 

“ I wish I could,” continued Hardy,- “ but I was 
never permitted to. Or, perhaps, I' shouldn’t say that ; 
but it is a fact that every line of search seemed to lead 
directly to one of the dead woman’s nearest friends. 
I followed clue after clue, and invariably came to the 
same point. Then I was bluffed, or foiled, or ordered 
off on some other job, or pooh-poohed, until I found I 
was treading on toes which wouldn’t stand it, and I 
must get off.” 

“ But has the murderer never been cjiscovered ? ” 
asked Mr. Russell. 

“ No, sir. There is a kind of open secret about it. 
And it comes up in the papers every little while,” 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


137 

said Hardy ; “but money, and politics, and social in- 
fluence manage to keep it down. 1 believe I could 
point the man out as easily as I could point you out. 
But, if I should do it, in the first place, I would forfeit- 
the confidence of my superiors ; in the next, I would 
doubtless lose my position, and last, but by no means 
least, very likely I should fail to. prove my suspicions. 
Circumstantial evidence which satisfies me might not 
have weight with the public or a jury.” 

“That’s so,” said Mr. Russell; “but do the other 
friends of the dead woman regard this one of whom 
you speak with suspicion ? ” 

“ Certainly they do,” said Hardy, “and that’s the 
very point. They have from the first ; and although, 
for social pride’s sake they keep up an external tolera- 
tion of the man, I suspect in private* they despise him, 
and really have nothing whatever to do with him. 
Possibly they have struck a kind of domestic balance ; 
and, remembering all the other hearts that would 
suffer, have deliberately chosen silence and condona- 
tion rather than the shame and disgrace resulting 
from a public trial. Or, again, there may be nothing 
in it. 

“ One of the queerest cases I ever met,” continued 
Hardy, “ was that of a lady living in Troy. She was 
rich, or rather her husband was, and owned some su- 
perb diamonds. They were lost — she said they were 
stolen. Suspicion fell on lrer maid, and the poor girl 


138 JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 

was arrested. I became quite interested in the case, 
because I felt that the accused party was innocent. I 
knew the thief would take the diamonds at once to a 
' pawnbroker in New York, so I simply caused it to be 
known among the professional thieves that, for cer- 
tain reasons, the detective bureau wished those dia- 
monds found. In less than a week I received infor- 
mation that they were in a pawnshop up town ; and, 
on inquiry, it turned out that the lady who owned 
them was the party who pawned them. She was 
short of money and adopted that mode of raising it, 
knowing that her husband would be very angry if she 
were to sell them. I was perfectly delighted when I 
found it out, and compelled her to compensate her 
servant for the infamy she had put upon her.” 

“ That was just right,” said Maud. 

“ What did her husband say ? ” asked Mrs. Russell. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” replied Hardy ; “ I said 
nothing to him. If she told him, all right; and if 
not, what was it to me?” 

“Were your parents American, Mr. Hardy?” 
asked Mrs. Russell. 

“My father was,” replied he, “but I have an im- 
pression that mother was English. She had relatives 
in England, • at all events. I have a trunk of hei 
things at my lodgings, which I mean to rummage some 
time. It is full of books, and newspapers, and letters, 
which, I dare say, would throw some light upon her 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


139 

early life. At all events, I think I’ll devote my first 
•leisure evening to an inspection, and” 

Hardy never finished that sentence. 

Ere the words could come the air was dark and 
filled with smoke. Dust and cinders, and fire and 
noise, and hissing steam drove life and breath away. 
Crashing timbers and splitting wood flew in every di- 
rection. Over and over and over again the car 
rolled, and groaned, and broke into confusion. 

The people were like dust in the balance. High 
and loud, and shrill over the shrieks of the murdered 
men and women, sounded the fierce rushing of the 
escaping steam, and, for a moment — long as eternal 
night — hell seemed to have its home on earth and 
every fiend was busy. 

The engine had struck a pile of rails heaped high 
upon the track, and had bounded from its iron path 
full tilt upon the adjoining ties. Two cars rolled 
over an embankment and four were drawn with 
terrific jolts across the rugged edges of the parallel 
track. 

The uninjured passengers hurried to the relief of 
their less fortunate companions. The engineer was 
dead, the fireman joined him later. 

Several passengers were very seriously injured. 

Mr. and Mrs. Russell were bady strained, Maud 
was well shaken but not hurt ; but Hardy, when 
extricated from the wreck, though carefully carried to 


140 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


a bank near by, gave no sign of life, and was pro- 
nounced dead by the conductor and the rest. 

Fortunately the accident, or rather outrage, was 
within a few miles of one of the “ line towns,” and 
messengers were at once dispatched for aid. 

Mrs. Russell and Maud, with other ladies, were 
seated in one of the ordinary cars, while Mr. Rus- 
sell, who had become very much attached to Hardy, 
stayed by his body. 

It was well that he did so, for, after a long time, he 
noticed a tremor of the lips and a partial opening of 
the eyes. 

“ Thank God,” said Russell, as he applied a flask 
of brandy to the lips of his friend, and calling for aid, 
did what was possible to bring him back to con- 
sciousness. 

A series of fainting fits showed the weakness of 
the poor fellow, and suggested also the probability of 
some internal injury. 

A wrecking train came up in about three hours 
with surgeons and help of all description. 

+ 

The dead were coffined, the wounded cared for, 
and, when the debris was cleared away, the train pro- 
ceeded slowly on to the station, drawn by the engine 
of the relief. 

Of the wounded, Hardy was the only one whose 
case the surgeons pronounced dangerous. They de- 
cided that he must not be carried further on. He 


JOHN HARDY'S STORY. 


141 

was therefore left at a house where boarders were 
taken, and a nurse, hired by the company, was placed 
with him. 

Mr. Russell was completely disheartened by what 
the doctors said, but was. somewhat comforted by his 
wife, who reminded him that they were only two 
hours’ car ride from Chicago, and that, after they had 
secured their apartments there, it would be easy to run 
out and see Hardy, and, if he were providentially 
spared, to remove him, when convalescent, to the city. 

The company’s officials assured Mr. Russell that 
Hardy should have the best of care, and having him- 
self made the nurse promise to advise him imme- 
diately if his presence was necessary, or anything 
whatever was needed, he took his wife and Maude, 
and sorrowfully finished the journey. 




CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 

HEN detective Miller brushed his hair down, 
and paid close attention to his beard, he 
was not absolutely ugly. Indeed, if he had 
retained the use of both eyes, he would be tolerably 
presentable. Ordinarily, however, his short reddish 
hair' would not stay down, and a day’s neglect of the 
razor imparted a tinge to the rude man’s cheek which 
by no means enhanced his beauty. 

Two days after Templeton, or, as he was there 
called, Mr. Harry Russell, was made one of the 
Miller household, the young ladies were pleasantly 
surprised when their grim father appeared at the 
breakfast-table dressed in his best, clean shaven, irre- 
proachable as to linen, and with his hair as slick and 
smooth as brush and comb could make it. 

Evidently something out of the common routine 
was on the carpet, and Miller’s manner made it more 
apparent. 

Breakfast was served, and nothing of moment was 




THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


143 


said or done until Miller, who was reading the morn- 
ing paper and drinking coffee at the same time, 
choked, coughed, jumped up and spluttered, and 
then recovering himself, said : “ Here, Mary, read this 
out loud, and the rest of you listen.” 

Somewhat surprised, Mary took the paper, and read 
as follows : 

“ A fiendish outrage, resulting in the killing of 
several railroad men, the probable death of others, 
and the wounding of twenty or thirty passengers, was 
perpetrated on the Michigan Central Railway yester- 
day afternoon, about ten miles beyond Johnson station. 
The New York express, due here at 5.30 p.m., was 
somewhat behind time, and the engineer was doing 
his best to recover what he safely could, when he 
made the sharp turn just below Wilson’s Grove. At 
that point the road is visible but some thirty feet at a 
glance, and, failing to observe any obstruction, the 
engineer drove at full speed upon what is represented 
as a pile of railing. The concussion was tremendous, 
resulting in the demolishment of the engine, and the 
instant killing of the engineer. The train was thrown 
from the track ; two of the cars rolled over the 
embankment, and the rest were jolted at a fearful rate 
across the rails of the adjoining track. The fireman 
was drawn from the wreck still living, but he died soon 
after in great agony. The wounded were attended to 
as well as was possible by the uninjured passengers, 


144 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


until the arrival of the wrecking train, when all but 
one were brought speedily to this city, where they 
were taken at once to the hospital or their homes. 

“ The passenger who was so badly hurt as to be 
unable to endure the fatigue of the trip is Mr. Hardy, 
a member of the New York police force. He was 
accompanying an English family, who .were on their 
way to this city on matters requiring his professional 
aid. It seems that Mr. Hardy, and the gentleman of 
the party were sitting vis-a-vis to two ladies, wife and 
daughter of the Englishman, whose name was not 
obtained. The collision was abrupt and sudden, of 
course, but Hardy, with praiseworthy presence of 
mind, caught the younger lady, who sat facing him, 
in his arms, in such a way as to protect her from con- 
tact with the iron work of the seat, by which, as the 
car turned over and over, he was terribly, bruised, 
while his companions, beyond the shock, experienced 
no injury of any kind. The surgeons find that Mr. 
Hardy’s left arm is fractured in two places, three of his 
ribs are broken, his face is badly cut, and his whole 
body so battered that it is a wonder he lives. He 
seems to have a strong constitution, and if his mind 
can rest while his body recuperates, he” may possibly 
recover.” 

Miller and Templeton looked at each other. 

The girls were interested in the romance of Maud’s 


escape. 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN 


145 


The men were excited to extravagance of hope by 
the reality of Hardy’s danger. 

“ What an infernal outrage that is,” said Miller. 

“Yes,” chimed in Templeton; “the fellows who 
would do such a deed as that would murder their own 
mothers. # Now, what earthly motive could they have 
for throwing a train full of strangers off the track, and 
perilling the lives of hundreds of people ?” 

'“ Perhaps their object was not earthly,” said 
Martha. 

Mary smiled, but the men did not seem to notice 
her sister’s suggestion. 

Presently Miller rose, kissed his daughters, and 
turning to Templeton, said : “ If this report is true, it 
won’t be necessary for you to keep so quiet ; but wait 
till I find out. I shall be back, perhaps, at one, but 
certainly in time for supper. Good-bye.” 

Leaving home, Charley Miller went first to head- 
quarters and reported. There lie learned that the 
facts were substantially as set forth in the paper, and 
that inquiry had already been received from New 
York about Hardy and his condition. The Chief 
thought Miller ought to go to the hotel at once, and 
see if he could be of any service to Mr. Russell ; so 
he went. 

Mr. Russell received the detective, and in the 
presence of his wife and Maud rehearsed the story 
of their accident, words failing only when he sought 
7 


146 THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 

to picture the noble conduct of Hardy, who had 
undoubtedly been much more seriously injured in his 
efforts to shield Maud than if he had cared only for 
himself. The ladies were also enthusiastic over 
Hardy, and begged Miller to advise them if Hardy 
would really be as well cared for where he was left, as 
if he were brought to the city. , 

Miller replied that if Hardy was kept quiet for a 
week or two where he then was, he might be able to 
endilre the jolting of the cars each day a short 
distance, and then be made more comfortable during 
his convalescence. He did not conceal from himself, 
however, the very probable fact that Hardy would not 
only never see Chicago, but never leave his bed, for 
the reports received at headquarters said he had 
passed a very bad night, was in a raging fever, and 
could not be kept quiet. 

Mr. Russell was not prepossessed by One-eyed 
Charley ; but Miller was so quiet, so plausible, so kind 
in his reference to Hardy, and so blunt in the expres- 
sion of his opinion, that before the business on which 
he called was broached, Miller felt that he had the 
confidence of the family. 

And besides he was the detective detailed from 
headquarters, and presumably as reputable a man as 
was on the force. 

“I suppose,” said he, “you don’t feel like talking 
business to me to-day, do you. I called partly to see 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


147 


if I could do anything for you or Hardy, and partly 
because I am directed to report to you for orders. If 
it isn’t agreeable to-day, I’ll call to-morrow; and if 
you don’t feel up to it then, I’ll call next day, and so on.” 

Mr. Russell hardly knew what to say. Whatever 
thought occupied his mind, was sure to be driven out 
by his anxiety about Hardy. He wanted to begin 
his search for his boy, but even that desire brought 
him at once to the consideration of what he could do 
without Hardy. Insensibly a feeling of personal 
regard had grown up between them. Hardy was 
always respectful, willing, good-natured and sensible. 
He had tact and knew when to leave. 

Few men have that faculty. 

He was bright, and jolly, and full of fun, but he 
was also serious, business-like, and full of resource. 

Russell liked him because he was a thorough man 
of the world, with a clean tongue, and an honest 
heart. 

And the ladies liked him because he was useful, 
without intrusion, and attentive without gallantry. 

Still, much as Mr. Russell thought of John Hardy, 
it was clear that he could be of no benefit to him 
now, beyond securing to him the best of care, and 
most experienced nursing. , 

That, as we have seen, was attended to, and Mr. 
Russell concluded that he might as well unfold his 
plans to the Chicago detective in person. 


j 4 8 the miller and his man 

Mrs. Russell and Maud retired, and Mr. Russell 
proceeded to business. 

“ I had hoped,” said he, “ to have the benefit of 
Hardy’s already acquired information, so that you 
and he might get to work at once, leaving me rather 
in the position of one to whom reports are made* ; but 
this accident deprives us both of valuable aid, and 
I find I must take a hand in myself. In brief, my 
case is this. Twenty years ago I lost a boy in New 
York. He was five years old. Next day I went 
home to England. My wife stayed bver two steam- 
ers, but nothing was heard <?f the little fellow. She 
followed me. We nearly died with grief at the time, 
and the poor girl did succumb at last. Well, twenty 
years are gone. Harry, if living, is twenty-five years 
old. 1 want to find him. Money is no object, time 
only do I grudge — not that I am unwilling to spend 
time, and strength, and all to find the boy, but I long 
to have him.” 

“ Have you no clue at all ? Couldn’t the police 
help you in any way then or now ? ” asked Miller. 

“ Not much,” replied Russell ; “ not much. We 
did find at the Tombs a record of a man named 
Delaney, who just at that time was picked up drunk, 
and taken to the Tombs. He had a boy with him, 
and was sent out here. Hardy seemed to think it 
might be well to hunt Delaney up, and trace the boy. 
It could do no harm, at all events, and might be pro- 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


149 

ductive of good. But, as Mrs. Russell says, ‘if De- 
laney was a hard drinker, and had gotten so low as 
the Tombs, twenty years ago, we are not likely to find 
him alive at this late day.’ What do you think ? ” 
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miller; 
“some hard drinkers live longer than temperance 
folks. That’s nothing to the point- But this boy, 
what was his name ? ” * 

“ Harry,” said Mr. Russell. 

“ Well, Harry,” continued Miller, “ this boy Harry, 
did he have anything peculiar about him? I don’t 
mean curly hair — they all have that — nor anything 
fancy, but marks or scars, or anything that would 
hold. Look at my cheek. See that scar ? That’s 
* nothing but a mosquito bite. I had that bite fifty 
years ago when I was a baby. I scratched the bite, 
and made the scar. I don’t suppose the little chap 
had a mosquito bite, but did he have anything at all ? ” 
“ Upon my word, I never thought to speak of it, 
nor has the question ever been asked,” replied Mr. 
Russell ; “ but when Harry was in my place in Mil- 
waukee ” 

“In where? In Milwaukee? Did you ever live 
in Milwaukee ? ” cried Miller. 

“ Of course I did,” said Mr. Russell. “ I had a 
shop there, and turned out the best cold chisels you 
ever saw in your life. I lived in the city over eight 
years, and in the vicinity two years more. Why?” 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


150 

“ Why, my dear sir,” exclaimed the detective^ who 
really saw a point in honest search, and certainly saw 
a bigger point in his little game in Templeton’s 
interest, “don’t you see that everything bearing on 
the boy’s early life is of interest ? And if you lived 
in Milwaukee five years with this boy, and he was a 
boy of any parU at all, he must remember something 
of his father’s home and surroundings. If we were to 
find a young man who answered the description, and 
forced us to think he really was your son, unless he 
could give you some evidence drawn from the expe- 
rience of his life in Milwaukee, I should very much 
doubt him. And on the other hand, even in the ab- 
sence of other conclusive proof, if the youth did re- 
member, to your satisfaction, any marked occurrence 
of the life at home before you lost him, I should yield 
a much readier assent. I beg your pardon for the 
interruption, but take my word for it, that Milwaukee 
life will prove a pivot in this entire search.” 

What a fortunate thing it is that men and women 
are .unable to read each other’s thoughts. There are 
clever people, now and then, who can make out a little 
of the inner life of their friends and companions, but 
as a rule the unknown ground is impregnable. 

It was especially fortunate for Detective Miller at 
this moment ; for his lively imagination had already 
packed itself with facts, drawn from future talks with 
Mr. Russell, and in turn, Templeton’s ready wit was 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


15 1 

stored with much that would puzzle, embarrass, and 
delight the heavy-hearted father, and perhaps con- 
vince him, that he was the lost boy of his search. 

Determining then and there to draw from Mr. 
Russell all he could concerning his Milwaukee home, 
Miller settled back in his chair again, and Mr. 
Russell proceeded as follows : 

“ Well, as I was saying, I had a little factory, 
hardly that, and yet it was more than a shop, where I 
turned out a high grade of tools, and was getting 
along quite nicely, when I was called home to see 
my father die. About a year before that, Harry, then 
four years old, and quite tall of his age, was playing 
about the place one day when I was out. The 
hands were busy, and didn’t notice him as he went 
up stairs, where the finished tools were packed for 
shipment. Presently they heard a sharp cry of pain, 
and rushing up to see what was the matter, found that 
Harry had pulled a sharp chisel from one of the 
benches, and had dropped it on his foot. One of 
the men quickly took off his shoe and stocking, and 
ascertained that the little toe of the right foot was 
cut through, and hung by a mere shred. The stupid 
fellow cut the little film of flesh by which the toe 
hung, and hurried with Harry to my house, which was 
only a block away. My wife bound the foot up, but 
neither of them thought of the toe itself, till the 
doctor came an hour later, and then it could not be 


THE MILLER AND HIS MAN. 


152 

found. We feared the mutilation would lame him, 
but he soon recovered, and, really, I don’t believe I 
have thought of it, or of the occurrence in twenty 
years.” 

“ c And yet that very mutilation, as you call it, may 
preserve you from being deceived by schemers v and 
fooled by rascals,” rejoined Miller. 

And to himself, he added : “ Off goes Templeton’s 
toe, as sure as fate ! ” 

Mr. Russell then narrated their experience in New 
York, and concluded by asking Miller if he was will- 
ing to begin to hunt up Delaney at once, and to take 
charge of the whole investigation independently of 
Hardy, whose recovery was a matter of months at 
least. 

Miller said he was not only willing, but would 
be very glad to do so. Before making any suggestions, 
however, he Would go home and think it over. 

Meanwhile, he proposed that with Mr. Russell he 
should take the two o’clock train, run out to see 
Hardy, and return by the train due at Chicago at 
9.30. To this Mr. Russell assented, and Miller went 
to the office to report. 



/ 


I 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

ROBERT DELANEY, CLERGYMAN, APPEARS. 

N canvassing possibilities, Miller found him- 
self confronted by the fact that the old 
man Dejaney might be found, and that the 
boy he was reported to have with him might be the lost 
son of Mr. Russell. To be sure, if, through the efforts 
of the Chicago police, these people were found, and 
the object of Mr. Russell thereby attained, Miller 
would be certain of a large reward ; but he believed a 
greater profit could be derived from Templeton if his 
plan were to succeed. Already $1000 had been 
paid to Miller, and $10,000 additional were pledged, 
but to the shrewd detective’s mind, Templeton, as 
Harry Russell, would prove a perpetual mine to one 
who held his secret and could at any time expose his 
fraud. 

Miller determined at once to put all his machinery 
in motion to discover Delaney ; and, first of all, went 
to the Mercantile Library, where were kept the 
7 * 




ROBERT DELANEY. 


154 

Directories of the city for more than twenty years 
back. 

Therq were quite a number of Delaneys, but no 
“James ” among them until the year 1865, and he 
was a clergyman. The fact that no James Delaney 
appeared in the list was not conclusive proof that 
there was no person of that name in the city ; but it 
was presumptive evidence. In the Directory of 1870 
there was “James Delaney, builder;” but after that 
year, although there were several of that name, none 
of them were builders. 

Miller was about giving up the search, when his 
eye lit on “ Robert Delaney, clergyman.” He won- 
dered for a moment why that name should be familiar 
to him, and then suddenly recalled that at a little 
Baptist church -not far from his own home, his daugh- 
ters frequently worshipped ; and that once or twice 
the minister, whose name was Delaney, had called at 
his house. 

He further remembered that the only serious dis- 
cussion that Mary and Martha had ever held before 
him was about this very man, who had asked Martha 
to take a class in his parish Sunday-school, and to 
visit among the poor as a kind of reader to the sick 
and infirm. Mary thought it was presumptuous in Mr. 
Delaney to propose such a thing to a stranger ; but 
Martha insisted that the qpastor of a church was 
charged with the Lord’s work, and had a perfect right 


ROBERT DELANEY. 


155 

to assume that every person who attended service in 
his church would be ready and willing to do what he 
could to aid the suffering and cheer the sick. 

The end of it all was, that Martha did not teach in the 
school, but very frequently called upon the poor people 
of the district, and in a quiet, womanly way, won the 
hearts of many sick persons by her gentle endeavors 
to relieve their troubles, and break the monotony of 
weary days and sleepless nights. 

Miller had heard his daughters talking about these 
visits occasionally, but it had never occurred to him 
to say anything about them. He gave Mary all the 
money she asked for, trusting to her to keep the 
house books of expense, and knowing that between 
her and her sister there was no jealousy, and no riv- 
alry, except in their endeavor to make home attrac- 
tive and pleasing to their father. 

The Rev. Robert Delaney was about twenty-six or 
seven years of age, tall and stout. He walked a 
trifle lame, but he bore himself with the air of a 
soldier. Indeed, he had served two or three years in 
the army, entering as a private* and leaving as a 
brevet-colonel. He began his service long after the 
fuss-and-feather days of the earlier years had passed, 
when for awhile it was easier to be made a brigadier- 
general than to earn an honest five dollars per diem ; 
but when fighting had become a business, politicians 
had less and less power every month, -and at the close 


ROBERT DELANEY. 


156 

of the war, brevet-colonels really ranked higher in 
the estimation of men who knew anything, than their 
superiors whose stars were conferred to please the 
whim of a politician. 

When Robert Delaney began his work in Chicago, 
he had a small hall and a slim audience ; but he was 
full of zeal, and talked to his hearers as if he were in 
earnest for their good. He was simple in his tastes, 
and modest in his manner, but magnetic and impulsive 
in speech. In prayer and exhortation he was pe- 
culiarly impassioned, and his efforts in behalf of 
young men were so sensible and practical that his 
reputation soon extended, and, had he chosen, he 
might h^ve been called up higher many a time. But 
he preferred to stay where he was and work. His 
friends appreciated his love of the place, and deter- 
mined to . build him a larger church. This they did, 
and on the Sunday following the search made in the 
Directories by Miller, the building was to be dedi- 
cated, and the church formally installed in its new 
home. 

Wondering whether he had actually had the very 
man he wanted under his own roof, Miller made a 
memorandum of Delaney’s residence, and returned 
to the hotel for Mr. Russell with whom he intended 
to go to see how Hardy was progressing. 

Miller found Mr. Russell in a state of great excite- 
ment over a dispatch Just received from Hardy’s 


ROBERT DELANEY. 


157 

nurse. The message reported Hardy in feverish con- 
dition, and said that the doctor would allow no one 
to see him or enter his room. 

Of course, there was no need or use in their going 
to the place where the wounded man was, if they 
could neither see him nor do him any good. So the 
trip was given up, greatly to Maud’s regret; who 
had secretly determined to make one of the party. 

“Well, Miller,” said Mr. Russell, after it was de- 
cided to defer the visit to Hardy, “have you thought 
of any plan ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the detective; “I shall first try 
to find James Delaney. You told me I think, that 
the matron said the little boy was five or six years 
old. How old exactly was Harry ? ” 

“ Let me see,” said Mr. Russell. “ Harry was 
more than five. I think he was nearly six, or he may 
have been over six and nearly seven. I have no way 
of fixing his age precisely, except by reference to 
some of my wife’s letters, and I haven’t seen them in 
five years. Anyhow, he was a little fellow, and I 
should say five, or six, or seven years old — there 
really is very little difference, you know.” 

“ No,” rejoined Miller, “ I don’t Suppose there is. 
I was only thinking that if living, he must be getting 
on toward thirty years old ; ^nd that, for a driving 
western man, is the prime of life. Out here, if a 
man is ever to amou.it to anything he knows it by 


1 5 8 X OBER T DELANE Y. 

the time he turns thirty. I may not see you for a few 
days. I have an idea. I may go to Milwaukee, and I 
may go elsewhere. Meanwhile, keep your eyes and 
ears open, and your mouth shut. If you are allowed 
to see Hardy I hope you’ll go. There isn’t much fun 
in being sick away from home, and ten to one he 
frets about the job besides.” 

Maud thanked Charley Miller with her tearful eyes 
for the kind word he spoke about Hardy. She longed 
to speak to him about Lieut. Templeton, and to ask 
if any such name had been mentioned in the arrivals, 
but she knew better, and did nothing of the kind. 

Mr. Russell acquiesced in Miller’s proposition, as- 
suming that he knew what was best to do ; and after 
urging him to spare neither expense nor care, bade 
him “good day,” and the party separated. 

The Russells drove out with a gentleman to whom 
Horace had letters, and Miller weiit directly home. 






* 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MILLER GOES TO CHURCH. A TOE FOR A TOE. 



N pursuance of a suggestion made by their 
father, Mary and Martha Miller invited the 
Rev. Mr. Delaney to dine with them the day 
of the dedication of the new church, and for his con- 
venience six o’clock was the hour named. 

At the morning service the sacred edifice was 
densely thronged, and several distinguished clergymen 
of the city participated in the ceremonies, the dedica- 
tion sermon being delivered by the pastor. 

Detective Miller astonished his daughtes by vol- 
unteering to accompany them to church, and, as in 
their recollection he had never done such a thing be- 
fore, it may well be imagined their astonishment was. 
thoroughly leavened with delight. 

None of the pews had been rented as yet, and on 
this occasion all seats were free. The Millers were 
well known in the society, and, as they were early at 




160 A TOE FOR A TOE. 

the door, were taken to excellent places quite near 
the pulpit. • 

The services were rather prosy until the delivery 
of the sermon. 

Up to that time Mr. Delaney had taken no part in 
the proceedings, and as he sat quite out of sight, 
Miller began to think he was wasting time. 

Presently, however, the pastor approached the 
desk, and Miller was his most careful observer. 

The detectiye element was in full play. 

Miller studied Delaney’s head, hair, eyes, mouth, 
and carriage, as a turfman does a horse. 

He examined his points, mental and physical, and 
confessed himself puzzled. 

Is he the son of Horace Russell, or is he not ? 

There was nothing in Robert Delaney’s look or 
bearing that forbade the supposition, and there was 
much that might be considered confirmatory evidence, 
if the theory were already advanced and partially 
proved. 

The young preacher was not a time-server. 

He felt himself the bearer of a message from the 
Ruler of the world, and as he delivered it earnestly 
and eloquently, self never obtruded, and Delaney 
never interfered with the envoy. 

Little by little Miller became interested in the 
subject. 

He forgot the man in the matter. 


A TOE FOR A TOE . jfa 

And when the minister wound up one particularly- 
impassioned appeal to fathers as exemplars before 
their children, the old rascal actually found a tear on 
his cheek, and an uncomfortable sensation in his throat. 

Robert Delaney was a sensationalist, but not a vul- 
gar one. 

All earnest men and women are sensationalists. 

It is necessary that they should be. In this world 
of hypocrisy and sham, honest endeavor and earnest 
work win their way and attract attention by their 
novelty ; and whatever is novel is sensational. 

The young man succeeded because success was not 
his aim. 

He was popular because he cared nothing for 
popularity. 

He was a good thinker, a magnetic preacher, and 
thoroughly imbued with the sacredness of his calling, 
and the universal need of moral and spiritual educa- 
tion. With no other care upon his mind, he had de- 
liberately chosen hjs field, and now this abundant 
harvest was rewarding his industry and zeal. 

He was loved by honest men, and toadied to by 
fools'; he was appreciated by earnest women, and 
flattered by silly ones. 

The honest and the earnest he loved and appreci- 
ated as they deserved ; the fools and silly women he 
understood, and tolerated only because he hoped in 
tirne to do them good. 


A TOE FOR A TOE. 


. » 

162 

Like all popular men he had his besetting tempta- 
tions. 

Had he been weak-headed, and vain, and selfish, 
( flattery, and incense, and social preferment were at 
his command. 

But he chose the wiser course, and in giving up 
all worldly plans, in the interest of his Master’s cause, 
he gained the more desirable rewards of respect, 
esteem and honor of his fellow-citizens and his flock. 

He was apparently twenty-six or twenty-seven years 
of age, with no parents, and no home save the mod- 
est lodgings he called his u rooms.” Attached to the 
new church, however, was a small parsonage, and 
into that he proposed to move at an early day. 

His deacons had often told him he ought to marry, 
but his heart very properly suggested that he should 
wait until he had met a woman whom he loved. 

Delaney had a high regard for his deacons, but 
there are some matters about which even deacons 
know very little. 

He was in no sense a ladies’ man. 

He thought of women mainly as co-workers in the 
field he tilled so faithfully. 

As teachers, readers, visitors, distributers of help- 
ful literature, and nurses, women were to him a right 
hand and a left, but no more. 

Indeed, until accident led him to the house of 
Martha Miller, he had never met any woman whom 


A TOE FOR A TOE. 


1 63 


he cared to meet or know outside of professional oc- 
cupation. 

He liked Martha. 

There was no nonsense about her. 

She was genuinely good, and although she had de- 
clined to take a class in his Sunday-school, Mr. Delaney 
was more than gratified at he£ common sense, way of 
calling on and helping sick people, and especially her 
happy faculty of brightening up a home of gloom and 
disappointment. He met her frequently on her 
charitable rounds, and had on one or two occasions 
partaken of her hospitality at her father’s house, 
where he had become well acquainted with her sister 
Mary, and had wondered where under Heaven such 
a queer-looking fellow as One-eyed Charley had pro- 
cured two such charming children. 

Between Martha Miller and her young pastor no 
word of love had ever passed. 

• And not only that, no worcj of sentiment or any- 
thing akin to suggestive remark had ever passed their 
lips. 

Nevertheless — and it is queer how naturally that 
“ nevertheless ” follows — close observers were quite 
convinced that there was an understanding between 
them, and in spite of the seeming contradiction, it is 
more than likely that there was a sort of unwritten 
law, like a social code. 

The invitation to dinner had been gladly accepted 


4 


164 


A TOE FOR A TOE . 


by Mr. Delaney, and when his quick eye saw not only 
the Miller ladies, but their queer old father in one of 
the front pews, he could not refrain from taking a mo- 
ment of his official hour for a personal wonder as to 
what the strange circumstance could portend. 

Miller was delighted with the sermon and more than 
pleased with the preacher. 

And as he bent his head when the final prayer was 
said, he almost resolved to give, up Templeton, and, 
if convinced that the Delaney of Chicago was the lit- 
tle Harry of Milwaukeej to aid Mr. Russell in finding 
a real rather than a bogus son. 

At the close of the services there was the usual 
hand-shaking of the members and the “buzzing” of 
the pastor, somewhat increased on this occasion by 
the peculiar circumstances attending the dedication, 
and then, accompanied by Miller and his daughters, 
Mr. Delaney left the church. 

It so chanced that Mary walked at her father’s 
side, while Mr. Delaney escorted Martha, a circum- 
stance that afforded Miller food for thought, and 
added some little weight to the idea which had forced 
itself upon him during the closing prayer. 

Nothing of special note occurred at the dinner table, 
except that the girls wondered why their father had 
directed Templeton’s dinner to be served in his room, 
until Miller said : “ Mr. Delaney, you are a native of 
Chicago, are you not?” 


A TOE FOR A TOE. 


165 

The clergyman hesitated a moment and then re- 
plied, “ I really don’t know, Mr. Miller, whether I 
was born here or not. I have some reason for be- 
lieving myself a native, and some for thinking I was 
born in New York. My early life is largely shut out 
from my memory by reason of a severe illness I had 
when quite a boy, the somewhat singular consequence 
of an accident which, though trifling in itself, gave my 
nervous system a shock, and laid me up for months. 
From that, however, I entirely recovered, and with the 
exception of rather an ungainly walk, I suppose 1 am 
as hearty and rugged a man as we have. M y father, 
I am quite sure, was English ; the name is English, 
and he had many habits which none but an English- 
man could have. He was a builder, and did a great 
deal of good work here. Poor man ! he was very kind 
to me ; and, having no mother, I was his entire family, 
absorbing all his care and love. His death was sud- 
den and terrible. Possibly you recall it. He fell 
from a scaffolding on the Episcopal church near the 
post-oftice, lingered unconscious but a few hours, and 
died without a word or sign of recognition. From 
that time I had a hard row to hoe, but ” 

“ But you hoed it,” interrupted Miller. 

“ Yes,” continued Mr. Delaney ; “ yes, I did hoe it, 
and save the aid which I got from the All-Helper I 
was literally my own guide, philosopher and friend. 
The war gave me an inspiration for good. The phy- 


i66 


A TOE FOR A TOE. 


sical suffering I witnessed in the hospitals and on the 
field led me by a natural process to regard the moral 
degradation and distortion of the race, and I deter- 
mined if my life was spared to devote myself to the 
regeneration of my fellows. I am free to say I enjoy 
my work and take genuine pleasure in its .prosecution. 
I saw so much destitution and depravity result from 
what I believe to be the greatest curse of our day and 
generation, that I resolved to make Temperance a 
distinct and prominent feature of my public teach- 
ings. Of course I encountered great opposition, but 
that’s nothing. 

“ One glimpse of a rescued man’s face is ample com- 
pensation, and one letter of gratitude from a reformed 
drunkard’s wife or daughter is cheer enough to pay 
for the abuse of a thousand rumsellers. But you 
asked if I was a native of Chicago, and not for an 
autobiography. As I said, I don’t know. Father 
lived in Cincinnati awhile and also in Kalamazoo, 
and I think in Milwaukee, but he seemed more at 
home here than anywhere. How long have you lived 
here, Mr. Miller?” 

“Oh, I’m an old settler,” said Miller; “both my 
girls were born here. I’m a western man myself and 
haven’t been east of Illinois in forty years. And I 
haven’t been inside of a church in twenty years that 
I know of ; not that I mean to brag of that before 
you, sir, but its merely a fact, that’s all. The girls at- 


A TOE FOR A T0$. ^7 

tend to that branch of the business, and do it pretty- 
well, too, I judge.” 

“Yes, indeed they do,” said the clergyman, and 
turning to Martha who sat at the head of the table he 
entered into a discussion about the church music, ill 
which she was specially interested. 

But Miller didn’t care about the music. He had 
his thoughts concentrated on Mr. Delaney’s foot. 

“ Has he or has he not lost a little toe,” thought he. 
And he thought it till it seemed as if he should go 
wild. 

After dinner the ladies led the way to the drawing- 
room, their father walking slowly in the rear with his 
one eye bent on Mr. Delaney’s feet. 

The man certainly limped a little. 

But whether the lameness was in foot or leg, Miller 
could not determine. 

He wanted to ask his guest, but he did not dare. 

He thought of a hundred different ways of getting 
at it, but hesitated to put any one of them to the 
proof. 

Finally, in despair, he excused himself, went to his 
room, took a razor from its case, put two handker- 
chiefs in his pocket and then knocked at Templeton’s 
door. 

Entering he found the ex-lieutenant at full length 
on his bed reading an official gazette. 

Templeton bounded to his feet, and said: “For 


1 68 


A TOE FOR A TOE. • 


Heaven’s sake, Miller, let me get out of this for an 
hour or two to-night. I really cannot stand such con- 
finement. If Hardy is mashed, why need I be coop- 
ed in my room ? I need exercise and must go out 
to-night for a walk, even if it be but for an hour. 
Come, now, what do you say ? ” 

Miller eyed him curiously and half laughed to him- 
self as he said : “ Templeton, how many toes have 
you ? ” 

Templeton looked at Miller in unfeigned amaze- 
ment, but seeing no reason to doubt' his sanity, and 
never having encountered in his host even the glimmer 
of a joke, answered as soberly as he could : “Ten, I 
believe. At all events I had ten this morning.” 

“ I’m very sorry,” said Miller ; “ that’s one too 
many.” 

“Well well,” rejoined Templeton, “out with it, 
what’s the joke ?” 

“There isn’t much joke about it,” said Miller ; “ I 
mean just what I said, and further, if you expect to 
prove that you are old Russell’s boy, you’ve got to 
prove that you have only nine toes.” 

“And one must come off?” asked Templeton. 

“And one must come off,” answered Miller. 

“ Good Heavens, I can never do that,” said Tem- 
pleton, as he pictured himself in pain, on crutches, 
lame and, perhaps, disfigured for life. 

“But I can,” struck in Miller; “it won’t hurt. I 


A TOE FOR A TOE, 169 

can take off your little toe in a jiffy, and can dress it 
and tend it, and have you all right in two weeks, just 
as good as new. Seriously, I can. And equally as 
seriously, if you don’t lose your toe, you lose your for- 
tune and we can’t afford that ; can we?” 

Templeton said nothing. 

He was a handsome fellow with a swinging easy 
walk, a firm step and an elastic bearing, born of per- 
fect health and his life upon the sea. He was not 
vain, but — well, he knew how he looked, as every one 
does, and was not dissatisfied with himself either. 

He knew that the loss of a toe would certainly 
lame him some, and possibly cripple him more than 
he could endure. He knew, too, the danger of lock- 
jaw, and he shrank from the mutilation also. 

“ Well,” said Miller, “ it takes you a long time to 
think of an answer. What do you say? shall it be 
fortune and no toe, or all toe and no fortune ? ” 

“ Couldn’t we get a surgeon?” replied Templeton, 
“I am afraid to risk your home-made skill.” 

“ Of course we can get a surgeon,” said Miller ; “and 
if, when the world knows that Horace Russell, the 
millionaire Englishman, has found his long-lost son and 
heir, by means of a lost toe, this blessed surgeon wants 
to spoil the job, or halve the proceeds, what’s to pre- 
vent? Oh! by all means let’s call in a surgeon. 
Well, now I guess not. I tell you I can take that toe 

off just as easy as rolling off a log. It will smart 
8 


A TOE FOR A TOE. 


170 

some ; but a little healing salve, and careful dressing 
will cure it up right off, and in ten days or a fortnight 
you’ll be up and about, as lively as a cricket.” 

“But you haven’t told me why” said Templeton, 
who hated the idea of losing even a little toe. 

“ Oh, I thought I had,” said Miller; “the ‘why’ is 
very simple. Russell’s boy’s toe was chopped off with 
a chisel. Of course he never got another. If he lost 
his toe then, he hasn’t it now. And if you’re to be 
the son, your toe is doomed.” 

“ All right,” said Templeton, “ get me some whiskey 
to steady myself with and cut away. All I ask is that 
you are careful, and do unto others as you’d be done 
by.” 

“ Why, what’s a toe more or less -anyhow,” mutter- 
ed Miller. 

“ Well, it doesn’t amount to very much on another 
man’s foot,” answered the Lieutenant, “but on one’s 
own its a very desirable feature. Now, you go and 
get the whiskey.” 

Miller obtained the whiskey and the salve, and in 
less than five minutes the toe was off, the salve was on, 
and the wound was done up in rags and a compress. 

Templeton bore the mutilation bravely. Indeed, he 
acted, better than Miller, who was keyed up only by 
the necessities of the case, and was forced to steady ) 
his own nerves by thoughts of the game he was play- 
ing and of the stake he hoped to win. 


A TOE FOR A TOE . 


171 

Templeton laid down to rest, and Miller, promising 
to send one of his daughters to read to his guest, and 
also to return as soon as Mr. Delaney should leave, 
went down stairs. j 

But he had not reached the last step when, in per- 
fect bewilderment, he exclaimed : “ How in thunder 
do I know which was the foot ? ” 

Amd then he re-entered the parlor where the young 
women were entertaining Mr. Delaney, or he was en- 
tertaining them, and it made but little difference to 
him, which was the case. If he had known that Harry 
Russell had lost the little toe of the right foot, while 
Mr. Templeton had been despoiled of the toe of the 
left foot, Miller would probably have cursed his luck. 

But he did not know it, and, on the whole, he was 
rather pleased with his success. 

While Miller and Templeton were going through 
their amateur surgery up stairs, Mr. Delaney and the 
daughter of the operator were enjoying themselves 
below. 

The preacher had a fine voice and sang well. 

And Martha had a sweet voice and sang very 
charmingly. 

Mary played and the others sang duets. 

Mr. Delaney was fond of Russell’s ballads and 
quite enjoyed singing “ The Ivy Green,” “ The Earl 
King,” and other songs of that style, and the girls 
were delighted to hear them. 


172 A TOE FOR A TOE. 

As Miller entered the room, Mr. Delaney was sing- 
ing : 

“ Oh, a rare old plant is the ivy green.” 

And to save his life the detective could not help say- 
ing : 

*‘Oh, a rare old plant is Templeton’s toe.” 

But he' said it to himself, and laughed at his own con- 
ceit. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

MAUD RUSSELL AS FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 

NE bright morning Maud Russell said to her 
mother, as they were returning from a little 
shopping excursion : “ Do you know, mam- 
ma, I feel quite ashamed that neither you nor I have 
seen Mr. Hardy since he was brought to town. It 
will be five weeks to-morrow since he was hurt, and 
two weeks the day after since the doctor said papa 
might have him brought to the hospital ? ” 

“Well, dear, what do you want to do?” replied 
Mrs. Russell. 

“I don’t know that / want to do anything that we 
all ought not to do,” rejoined Maud ; “ but you must 
remember the poor fellow wouldn’t have been so 
badly injured if he hadn’t tried to save me, and I 
think we should do all we can to make his misfor- 
tune bearable. If you wait for me, I’ll buy some 
flowers and some fruit, and we can call at the hos- 
pital tq leave our names with the flowers, if we can- 
not see him.” 





i74 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


“ Why, my dear girl,” said her mother, “ your 
father and I have seen John Hardy every day since he 
was brought up here. I have said nothing to you 
about my going, for the hospital, though clean, is 
a hospital, and you might have encountered some 
unpleasant scene. Hardy is doing quite nicely. I 
doubt if he is ever perfectly well, and it will be sev- 
eral weeks before he can hope to walk. I have no 
objections to taking you with me this afternoon, but 
we must be sure to be back in time to meet papa on 
his return from Milwaukee.” 

“Oh, thank you, mamma,” said Maud ; “you always 
let me have my own way without coaxing, and are 
such a dear good friend I’ll keep right on and get 
the things, and you order a carriage at the office.” 

Mrs. Russell went slowly to her rooms, wondering 
as she walked, whether Templeton’s singular absence 
and more strange silence, were having their normal 
effect on her daughter’s mind and heart. 

For a few days after the scene at the Everett 
House, Maud was greatly depressed. 

She was never hysterical, but rather moody. 

If Mrs. Russell alluded to Templeton, Maud 
roused herself and joined the conversation, wonder- 
ing where he had gone and what had become of him. 
But both Mr. and Mrs. Russell noticed with pleasure 
that Maud’s pride was wounded and her self-respect 
hurt so seriously that her mourning for Templeton 

i 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


175 

bade fair, in time, to be relegated to the back- 
ground. 

After their arrival at Chicago his name had not 
been mentioned but twice, and on each occasion 
Maud simply asked her father if he had seen any 
record of Templeton’s arrival at any of the hotels. 

Between semi-weekly trips to the scene of the 
disaster, and daily* conferences with Detective Miller, 
Mr. Russell’s time had been pretty well occupied, al- 
though he had not been unmindful of the social at- 
tentions extended him and his family by people to 
whom he bore letters of introduction. 

Mrs. Russell was very quiet in her tastes and do- 
mestic in her habits. So much so, in fact, that, were 
it not for Maud, it is doubtful if she would ever 
leave her hotel during her husband’s absence. 

She knew, however, the necessity of keeping her 
daughter’s mind busy, and never refused to go with 
her either to entertainment or for exercise. 

Maud had made a good impression on the friends 
who had been civil to the Russells in Chicago, but no 
impression other than that of passing pleasure had 
touched her in head or heart. 

Not that she mourned Templeton as a woman of 
deeper nature might, but she was worried mentally, 
and uncomfortable generally about her recreant lover. 
If she could have known that ‘he was false, pride 
would have rescued her from grief, but she knew 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


176 

nothing. From the pinnacle of affectionate devotion 
her ardent admirer had plunged into hiding. 

Of course, then, she was annoyed and embarrassed 
as any other woman would be under similar circum- 
stances. 

Mrs. Russell watched Maud’s health anxiously, and 
was delighted to observe her cheerfulness and con- 
tentment. 

Nothing now seemed to interfere with sleep or ap- 
petite. Her color was good and her spirits generally 
fine. She was amiability itself, and the brightness of 
her little circle. 

While the two ladies were busied in their social 
rounds, their shopping and driving, Mr. Russell, with 
characteristic conscientiousness, devoted himself to 
business. 

He had two branches to attend to — John Hardy 
and the search for his boy. 

As already told, Hardy had so far recovered that 
he was taken by stages to Chicago, where Mr. Rus- 
sell daily and Mrs. Russell often called to see him. 

The other branch was attended to with even greatei 
assiduity and regularity. Mr. Russell had taken a lik- 
ing to One-eyed Miller, in spite of the first impres- 
sions, and after a series of adventures in Chicago, had 
gone with him to Milwaukee. 

There Mr. Russell was bewildered. 

His old friends and neighbors had died or gone off. 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


177 


The town had become a glorious city. 

Nothing was as he left it. 

Even the place where once stood*his modest shop 
and factory, had been merged into a public park or 
square, so that it was with difficulty he found it. 

Together they remained in Milwaukee several days, 
during which Miller pretended- to gain information 
about Delaney and the little boy he had with him, 
and one morning, with flushed face and flashing eye 
he entered Mr. Russell’s room, crying : “ Good news, 
Mr. Russell, good news, sir ; I’m on the track at last 
— thank God,. I’ve struck a trail.” 

“ Is it here ? ” said Mr. Russell, almost wild with 
excitement. 

“ No, but it was,” answered Miller, “ and it led to 
New. York. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it 
— unless you want to get back to the women folks to- 
night. If you do, let’s be off.” 

“Why, of course I do,” rejoined Mr. Russell, and 
together they started for the depot, stopping on the 
way to telegraph Mrs. Russell of their coming. 

“Miller,” said Mr. Russell, suddenly stopping in the 
street, “ wait till we get to the hotel. Don’t tell me 
a word till we are all together. ” 

“All right,” returned the detective. 

At the time Mrs. Russell told Maud she expected 
her husband’s return, there were several hours before 

the arrival of the Milwaukee train, and entering the 
8 * 


i7 8 MAUD RUSSELL. 

carriage, mother and daughter were driven to the hos- 
pital. 

Mrs. Russell .jvas so well known to the attendants 
that no passes were required, and they went at once 
to Hardy’s room. 

Receiving permission to enter from the nurse, Mrs. 
Russell, followed closely by Maud, softly opened the 
door and stood at the side of the wounded man. 

He was sleeping. 

Maud approached with her flowers and basket of 
fruit, and looked at the pale face of the brave fellow 
who had perilled his life for her safety, and was deeply 
impressed by the change. 

Hardy had grown thin and his lips were pinched. 
His curly black hair was pushed carelessly back from 
a smooth, clear forehead, and his partially parted lips 
disclosed two rows of teeth which a belle might well 
have envied. 

Maud was deeply touched. 

She had seen Hardy in the flush of strength, and had 
known him as a driving, energetic person, to whom 
physical oppositions were as playthings, and now to 
find him weak and helpless, asleep in broad daylight, 
on a hospital cot, was indeed a shock. 

Hardy opened his eyes. 

Before him stood, with undisguised pity and sympa- 
thy on her .face, the woman of his inner adoration, 
to whom he would no more think of speaking tenderly 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


179 

than of flying, but for whom he gladly risked life, and 
health, and hope. 

Love cannot be analyzed. 

( It defies rules, and ignores bounds. 

; Whatever is most absurd, that Love does. 

That which is never prophesied, is Love’s certain 
doing. 

Grant but the “circumstances” and many “cases” 
would soon be altered. 

Time and opportunity denied, are the obstacles to 
many a love match, and the spoilers of many a happy 
possibility. 

It may be that these young people did not then 
and there canvass the exact status of their feeling for 
each other. 

Most probable they did not. 

But, however that may be, when Maud handed 
Hardy the bouquet she had tastefully arranged with 
her own fair hands, and smilingly said : “ Dear Mr. 
Hardy, I am so sorry for you, and I do hope you will 
be well very soon,” it seemed to the poor fellow as if 
he had inhaled several gallons of oxygen, and he had 
suddenly been transported from the cot of his ward 
to a bed of roses — from the hospital to Heaven. 

“ Now that I’ve found the way, I mean to come 
and see you every day,” said Maud ; “and I’ll read 
you to sleep if you’ll let me.” 

. If he’d let her ! 


180 MAUD RUSSELL. 

The ladies remained nearly an hour at the bedside 
of John Hardy, giving him such gossipy information 
as might tend to divert his mind from himself, and 
then Mrs. Russell rose, saying : “ Mr. Russell is ex- 
pected back at half-past six, and we must go now, so 
as to meet him.” 

Hardy turned a little in his bed. 

“You knew, didn’t you,” continued Mrs. Russell, 
“ that Mr. Miller is quite confident that old Delaney’s 
companion, 4 little Bob ’ was Mr. Russell’s son ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Hardy, “so Mr. Russell tells me, 
but until I see and hear Miller myself, I don’t take 
much stock in that idea. I wish I was able to be out, 
or at all events to be up. Then I could judge for 
myself. Please ask Mr. Russell to see me as early 
as he can to-morrow. I believe I’ll make an attempt 
to get up then, and if I can, it won’t be long till I 
can get my hand on the wheel.” 

Hardy thanked Maud again and again, for the 
flowers and fruit, choice in themselves but radiant as 
evidences of her kind thoughtfulness of him, and grate- 
fully pressing her hand, he sank back to rest, as mother 
and daughter bade him “ good-bye.” 

“ Handsome, isn’t he ?” said Maud as they stepped 
into their carriage. 

“ Yes. I always liked Hardy’s looks,” said her 
mother. “ He is not only handsome but good, which 
is better.” 


MAUD RUSSELL. 


181 


As they drove to the hotel, Maud thought of all 
she could do for the young man who had saved her 
life, and who, when she began to thank him, had beg- 
ged her not to say one word about it, if she wished to 
please him, and in her programme, Lieut. Templeton 
had neither place nor thought. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 


ON THE TRACK AT LAST. 



S! ITH a quick, decided sfep, Horace Russell 
entered his parlor at the hotel, followed by 
Miller. 


“ Well, daughter. Here I am,” said he, and hardly 
had he spokenw hen two pairs of arms welcomed him, 
and two loving mouths saluted him. 

“ Here’s Miller” said he, when the greetings were 
done ; “and I tell him he must dine with us. We’ll 
have the table spread here, so that we can be by our- 
selves. He has a story to tell, and I wouldn’t allow 
him to speak of it till we were all together, so that we 
could all enjoy it. Isn’t that so, Miller? Come, 
mother, Mr. Miller wants to refresh himself a bit after 
his ride ; and as forme — well, look at me, I’m nothing 
but dust and dirt. How’s Hardy ?” 

The ladies bustled about as requested, and in due 
time the travelers were made presentable; dinner 
was served, the waiter dismissed and Miller proceed- 
ed to lie. 


ON THE TEACH AT LAST. ^3 

If ever a man had a hard task before him, Mill-er 
had on this occasion, for it was absolutely necessary 
for him to concoct a report which would drive all in- 
terest away from Robert Delaney who, he believed, 
was the son of Mr. Russell ; and to lead, in some way, 
the mind of his employer to the conviction that the 
little boy brought to the West by Delaney, the builder, 
was the son, in order that eventually he might produce 
Templeton as the man grown from “little Bob.” 

And yet it was an easy task. 

There was an anxious, eager father, looking and 
hoping for the desire of his heart. 

And by his side were two trusting women interest- 
ed for the sake of him whom they both loved better 
than all the world besides. 

It could not be very difficult to deceive that trio. 

At all events Miller was quite ready to try. 

He would have given five dollars for a pipe, but as 
Mr. Russell did not even use a cigar, his chance 
for a smoke was hopeless. 

In a moment, he rallied and plunged at once into 
his story. 

“I think,” said he, “we’re on the right track. In- 
deed, I’d almost swear it. When you first came here 
I didn’t see any very great show in the job, but I’ve 
about concluded that I was wrong. I wasn’t given 
any very remarkable clue, as you know very well. 
All I had to go on was, a boy with nine toes, 


1 84 % ON THE TRACK AT LAST. 

brought out here twenty years ago by a drunken fellow 
called Delaney. There ain’t any Delaney, as I can 
find, except a Baptist preacher out here, and I know 
all about him, and have ever since he was born ; and 
besides he’s got ten toes, so that doesn’t count. ' One 
day when I was just about discouraged, I ran across 
an old fellow — he’s a janitor at the jail — who remem, 
bered a builder named Delaney, and said he had an 
idea he went to Milwaukee at least fifteen or twenty 
years ago. Well, I wrote over to a friend on the force, 
and found that there was no such person there now, 
but that the repords of twenty years ago showed the 
name quite often. Then I proposed to Mr. Russell 
that he and I should go there. We went, and while 
you were being shaved, sir, I called on Billy Oake, my 
old chum, and together we hunted out the facts. It 
seems that the very Delaney you heard of in the 
Tombs, was sent out here by the New York authori- 
ties, and, although when he worked he was able to 
take care of himself, he wasn’t much better than a 
common ‘ drunk.’ Our folks warned him away, he 
went to Milwaukee. While he was there, he led the 
same kind of a life, but he was always very kind 
to a little boy he had with him. That boy might 
have been his child, and it might not. Nobody seem- 
ed to know. At all events he got so outrageous there, 
that the supervisors shipped him back to New York, 
and the general belief is he died there. Nothing 


ON THE TEACH AT LAST. 


* 8 5 

definite is known about the boy, except that he had 
lost a toe from one of his feet, and took splendid care 
of his daddy when he was drunk.” 

“ Poor boy,” interrupted Maud. 

Mr. Russell sat with his eyes wide open, but his 
lips were shut tight. 

A thousand boys might have been in the charge of 
drunken men, but it was not likely that this was any 
but his lost or stolen son ; the missing toe was con- 
firmation strong indeed. 

Miller went on. 

Every word he uttered was false. 

But every point made was strong for Templeton. 

“ Well,” said he, “ nothing definite could be got at 
about either boy, or man, except that Delaney is be- 
lieved to be dead, and the boy was heard of a year 
or so after they went to New York, selling newspapers. 
The way that came about, was rather queer. That 
is, I suppose, it would seem so to any man in ordi- 
nary life ; nothing lo'oks queer to me. The keeper of 
our city prison was in New York with one of the Mil- 
waukee officers, and this little chap was seen near the 
head of Wall street, with a torn cap on the back of 
his head, yelling out his papers like a good one. I 
have an idea that I can get more about that before 
the week is over. But, further, I learn that the boy 
was tracked to a coaster which went to Boston. 
He shipped as ‘ Bill * and was very sick when the 


1 86 


ON THE TRACK AT LAST. 


vessel reached port. That’s all I’ve got as yet, 
but—” 

“ Well, I should think that was considerable,” said 
Mr. Russell, “ for, of course, there is a regular system 
about such matters. If he was sick, he was taken to 
the hospital, and the records will tell what was done 
with him afterwards.” 

“Yes,” said Miller, “and that can be ascertained 
just as well by letter, as in person. I propose having 
our Chief write to the hospital an official letter. 
That will fetch the answer quicker than a private 
letter.” 

“ When can you see the Chief? ” asked Mr. Russell. 

“Well, I could see him to-night,” replied Miller; 
“ but I thought, perhaps, it would help a little if you 
were to go with me.” 

“All right,” said Mr. Russell; “we’ll go together 
in the morning. I congratulate you, Miller. I 
congratulate myself. I declare I begin to feel as if 
we were certain of success. Be here by ten in the 
morning, Miller. Don’t fail, will you.” 

Miller gave the promise and retired, chuckling as 
he went — for he saw his way to Templeton’s triumph 
as clearly as he saw the moon in the sky. 

All he needed now was a letter from the Boston 
officials narrating the facts in relation to Templeton, 
who, it will be remembered, was known at the work- 
house as “Bill,” and only assumed the name of 


ON THE TEACH AT LAST. jSj 

William Templeton, when adopted by his Massachu- 
setts friend. 

It seemed perfectly plain sailing to Miller, who had 
not yet been brought in contact with John Hardy, 
and had strangely enough forgotten that Templeton 
had once broached his nefarious scheme to the New 
York detective, and had been bluffed. 

However, as matters were, he was satisfied ; and, as 
he thought they would be, he was content. 

He speedily gained his house, and after a brief chat 
with his daughters, went with Templeton to his room, 
where they sat together until long after midnight, ar- 
ranging and planning for future success. 

The Russells sat up late also, but all their plans 
were born of love, and all their projects pointed in 
the direction of hope and happiness, for the object of 
their search, in whom the heart and soul of the entire 
family now seemed wrapped. 



\ 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THREE LITTLE BOYS — BILL, BOB, AND HARRY. 


MONG the letters on Mr. Russell’s table the 
following day was one 'which attracted 
Maud’s attention the moment she entered 
the room. She took it up. It was addressed to Hor- 
ace Russell, Esq. , but it bore no resemblance to an 
ordinary business letter. 

She wondered what it might be. 

Mr. Russell soon joined her, and she begged him 
to open it first of all. 

He did so, and found it to be an invitation for him- 
self and ladies, from a leading lawyer of the city, to 
meet a few friends at his house on the following even- 
ing. 

Horace shook his head, but Maud coaxed so 
strenuously in favor of an acceptance that he agreed to 
leave it entirely to his wife. If she said “ yes,” he- 
would go ; otherwise, he would not. 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 189 

When Mrs. Russell came in, her husband placed 
the invitation in her hand without a word. She read 
it and glanced quickly at Maud. 

That settled it. 

She saw that Maud wanted to go, and at once she 
said, “Well, father,' I suppose Maud would be glad 
of a little change. I think we will go if you can spare 
the evening.” 

Horace laughed good-naturedly. The decision was 
in no sense a surprise to him. 

Had Maud expressed a wish for a four-yolked egg, 
her parents would have secured every hen in the west- 
ern country, rather than appear averse to gratifying 
her desire. 

The evening came, and the Russells drove to the 
residence of their host. 

The house was one of the finest in the city, the 
abode of culture and wealth, the favorite rendezvous 
of a circle of refinement and worth, where the best 
people of the city met and discussed and often decid- 
ed plans affecting the moral and physical projects of 
the State. 

On this occasion a rather notable gathering was as- 
sembled, and much interest was felt in the expected 
appearance of the millionaire Englishman with the 
singular mission. 

Whatever may have been the opinion of the peo- 
ple present concerning Mr. Russell, when he entered 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


190 

the room with wife and daughter on either arm, there 
was no division of sentiment about Maud. 

She was perfectly dressed and looked like a pic- 
ture. 

She was under, rather than above, the average height, 
very prettily formed, in perfect health, and flushed 
with happiness and anticipation. 

Her beautiful hair was neither “ banged,” nor “ friz- 
zled,” nor tortured in any way. She wore it parted 
in the middle of her head, brushed simply back to her 
comb of shell, about which it was coiled in thick and 
massive plaits. 

Her dress was white silk, rich but plain, and her 
only ornaments a pair of exquisite solitaire pearl 
earrings and cross of pearls. 

Maud knew her beauty, but it did not make her 
vain. 

It pleased her father, and delighted her mother ; — 
for what else had she to care ? 

Mrs. Russell was the recipient of much attention 
which she received modestly and bore in a very 
ladylike way, while her husband, manly outside and 
in, was very soon engaged in earnest conversation 
with several “solid men,” who, like himself, were in- 
terested in the great problem of the day, and perplex- 
ed as all men are who try to solve the conundrum of 
Labor and Capital. 

“ I dare say you think,” said the host of the even- 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


191 

ing, “ that our system of quadrennial elections, involv- 
ing frequent change of administration, has something 
to do with what you call our ‘ unsettlement, ’ Mr. 
Russell.” 

“Yes, I do, most certainly,” answered the English- 
man ; “ it stands to reason that officials who are kept 
in place only by favor of party, cannot give their en- 
tire time, thought and energy to their duty. And with- 
out thaEdevotion to duty, no official can be competent. 
With us a good clerk in the postal or customs ser- 
vice is certain of his position for life. Here he hard- 
ly gets warm in his seat before he has to make room 
for another.” 

“ I grant you there is something in that,” rejoined 
the gentleman, “ but I was referring more especially 
to the President.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Russell, “you would hardly ex- 
pect an Englishman to agree with the accepted Amer- 
ican theory that constant change is as beneficial as 
permanence and solidity. I know you argue that 
the President always exists, and only the individual 
changes. But I do not think facts warrant the asser- 
tion — when your ‘ man ’ changes, your whole gov- 
ernment changes, from cabinet officers to customs 
searchers. We, on the outside, as friendly critics, 
see better than you do, if you will permit me, a grad- 
ual ’tendency to centralization, which we believe will 
in the end be of inestimable benefit to this nation. 


192 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


And, unless I greatly misjudge 'your people, these con- 
stantly recurring excitements are more and more dis- 
tasteful year after year.” 

“ You refer to the election excitements?” 

“ Yes. You elected President Lincoln twice, and 
it was often remarked at home that his re-election was 
but the entering wedge. His third election was quite 
probable ; his death removed the test. But you re- 
elected President Grant, and ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Russell,” broke in a jolly-faced party, 
who had held a prominent judicial seat since his early 
manhood, and was as full of fun as he was of experi- 
ence, “ that won’t do. No third-term talk here to- 
night ; you’ll drive our Chicago friends wild if you 
start on that.” 

* 1 Oh, no, he won’t,” chimed in the host; “ Mr. 
Russell is evidently a Grant man. Let’s hear the 
rest of your sentence, Mr. Russell. You were saying 
that we had re-elected Grant.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Russell ; “ I was simply showing 
that although President Lincoln’s death precluded 
the solution of the problem in his case, you had at 
the very first opportunity re-elected a president, and 
now, as the next general election draws near, I find 
a decided feeling in favor of continuing the incumbent 
a third time, and why not a fourth and a fifth ? ” 
“Which of^ course you think would be a good 
idea ? ” 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


193 

“Certainly it would. Not that this or that man is 
necessarily the best to be found for the position, but 
being there he retains subordinates who are familiar 
with their duty, and who are sure to be removed if a 
new chief is elected.” 

“ Well, as the judge says, this third-term discussion 
is apt to be a long one,” said the gentleman of the 
house ; “ but it is certainly full of interest, especially 
if not discussed for or against any special person.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Russell ; “ I was arguing for 
the principle, not at all in the interest of any individ- 
ual. We think from what we see and read, that Pres- 
ident Grant, however, has a tremendous leverage. 
His sixty thousand office-holders are a great power. 
He ought to be able to control the convention, and 
doubtless his name is still potent with thousands of 
voters in the country, where all memories of the 
1 bloody chasm ’ are not yet forgotten, and where the 
‘ red flag ’ argument is still very powerful. And then 
the capitalists must dread change. It really seems to 
me, you know, that if the present president were 
to use his power, he could do pretty much as he 
pleased.” 

Mrs. Russell had been leaning upon the arm of her 
host during this conversation, and several ladies had 
joined the group, evidently interested in the turn the 
discussion had taken. As Mr. Russell closed his last 
sentence, a young gentleman entered the room, and 
9 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


194 

approaching the lady of the house, saluted her and 
her husband. After a moment’s conversation he was 
turning away, when the lady said : 

“ Mr. Delaney, let me present you to Mrs. Russell 
of England, and Mr. Russell also.” 

Horace started, looked quickly at the handsome 
face and sturdy figure, and then grasped the young 
clergyman’s hand with marked and noticeable in- 
terest. 

Opportunity was not afforded at the moment, but, 
in the course of the evening, Mr. Russell asked his 
host “ what he knew about Mr. Delaney ? ” 

He replied that he was a very popular and much 
respected preacher of their city, a native and life-long 
resident of Chicago, and a man not only of great 
force, but of great goodness of character as well. 

Mr. Russell brushed away from his imagination the 
dim outlines of a picture there forming, but he could 
not efface the impression the young man had made 
upon his mind. 

As he looked about the spacious apartment, he saw 
Maud and the young clergyman in conversation. 

Excusing himself, he approached them as Maud 
said : “ I should be very happy to go, I assure you, 
and if you can call at the hotel, both papa and mamma 
will be pleased to see you.” 

“Yes, indeed, we will, Mr. Delaney,” said Mr. 
Russell ; “we shall doubtless be here three or four 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


r 95 

weeks longer, and if you can spare the time, we’ll be 
heartily- glad to see you. Where is it you want Maud 
to go ? ” 

“ I had been telling her of my new church, sir,” 
replied Mr. Delaney ; “ and of what we consider a 
delightful feature — an admirable choir, with a superb 
organ, and your daughter was kind enough to say she 
should be pleased to go to the church.” 

“ Of course she would,” said Mr. Russell ; “ of 
course she would — and so would Mrs. Russell and 
'myself. We’ll go next Sunday. Why can’t you dine 
with us on Sunday ? Oh, I beg pardon ; perhaps Mrs. 
Delaney ” 

Mr. Delaney laughed. “ You need have no fear of 
that good woman, Mr. Russell. As yet she exists 
only in imagination, and is as manageable as she is 
ethereal. I was trying to recall whether I had an en- 
gagement to dine at Mr. Miller’s on Sunday. I think 
I have.” 

Mr. Delaney was a clergyman, to be sure, but 
clergymen are men, and men are apt to remember 
their engagements with the darlings of their hearts. 

It was the young preacher’s custom, now, to dine 
every Sunday at Mr. Miller’s. 

On that day One-eyed Charley was rarely at home, 
as the dinner hour was at one instead of six o’clock, 
as usual. Not that he would have objected to Mr. De- 
laney’s visits. On the contrary, he liked the man, 


x 9 6 three little boys. 

and, possibly, if he had kept his eye about him, he 
would have seen, what everybody else saw, that the cler- 
gyman was desperately in love with the pretty Martha. 

And if he had seen that, would he have done his 
best to keep Delaney and Russell apart, or would he 
have kicked Templeton’s dirty money into the street, 
and bade the schemer and his nine toes depart ? 

It was finally arranged that Mr. Russell would take 
his wife and daughter to Mr. Delaney’s church the fol- 
lowing Sunday, and they all looked forward to the 
time with pleasure. 

The evening passed agreeably. 

Maud was a favorite at once. She danced grace- 
fully and was very fond of it. Her hand was in con- 
stant requisition, and she enjoyed an exceedingly 
happy time. 

Mrs. Russell was well cared for, and Horace was 
the lion of the occasion. Every one knew that; he was 
a man of mark among his fellows at home, that he 
represented very large commercial interests, and that 
he was at present engaged in a search as romantic as 
it was creditable. He was not a brilliant man, but 
he had hard common sense, and like all sensible men, 
he made himself felt wherever he went. 

It was quite late when Mr. Russell’s carriage was 
announced ; then bidding his friends “ good night,” 
the good man with his wife and daughter returned to 
their hotel. 


THREE LITTLE BOYS. 


197 


There they found Miller. 

Without a moment’s delay, Miller took Mr. Russell 
by the arm, and leading him toward the window, said : 
“ Mr. Russell, keep calm, sir ; I believe we have a 
clue to your son. The Chief has received a letter 
from Boston, which says they have ascertained that a 
boy called ‘ Bill ’ was either adopted by a gentleman 
or bound out to a harness-maker, at the time referred 
to, and they will spare no pains to ascertain the facts, 
and when we get them, the game is done.” 

It would be idle to attempt to paint the delight and 
joy of Horace Russell and his wife and daughter. 

“ Truly,” said he, “ my cup runneth over.” 



p 





CHAPTER • XXVIII. 


THE SNAKE FASCINATES MARY MILLER. 



N conversation with Templeton, Miller had 
so thoroughly convinced him that their de- 
ception would succeed in the end, that all 
thought of marrying Maud had been driven from his 
mind. 

So far as Templeton knew, Maud was Mr. Rus- 
sell’s own daughter. Marriage with her was, to him, 
obviously impossible in the event of Mr. Russell’s ac- 
cepting him as his long-lost son. And, beside, Tem- 
pleton had found in Mary Miller a much more con- 
genial companion. 

It was now nearly three months since he was first 
introduced to the Miller home. 

A large part of that time he had been forced into the 
society of Miller’s daughters, and as Martha was de- 
voted to the humanitarian duties assigned her by her 
pastor, Templeton had no choice in the matter — he 
remained with Mary. 

Mary Miller was a good girl. 





MARY MILLER FASCINATED. 


i 99 


She loved her sister and idolized her father. 

Outside of the church circle she had but few ac- 
quaintances and no near friends. 

The society of gentlemen was unknown to her. 
What wonder, then, that she became interested in this 
young friend of her father, who added to graces of 
person, the charms of culture and the polish gained 
by travel ? 

They read and talked together. She sang to him, 
and he told her of all 'he had seen at home and 
abroad. 

Insensibly she passed from interest to regard, and 
thence to love. 

In her eyes Templeton was a hero. 

No romance ever painted serener beauty than his. 
No fairy ever wove more exquisite garments than 
those in which Mary Miller’s fancy invested her lover. 

And he — well, he did not love her, for love was a 
feeling whose depths he never sounded, but he liked 
her, and was pleased at her attentions. 

Intentionally he never led her a step, but, for all 
that, the steps were taken, and, before he really sus- 
pected it, Templeton found himself the girl’s idol, her 
all in all, the one thing needful for her heart’s com- 
fort and the delight of her soul. 

Man-like he did nothing to stop it. 

He simply shrugged his shoulders and let her love 
him. 


200 


MARY MILLER FASCINATED. 


When he one day was left by her for a few moments, 
Miller being about his duties, out of town, and 
Martha on her circuit, Templeton looked the matter 
squarely in the face. “ If I permit this girl’s love for 
me to be known to her father, will it help or mar my 
plans ? Will Miller consent to her marriage with a 
man he does not trust ? And if not, what becomes 
of her ? If, again, I marry her unknown to her 
father, am I not in position to turn his flank when 
occasion requires, and, through his love for his 
daughter, hold him to any bargain and any secret, 
whether he like it or not ? ” 

Thus pondering, Templeton slowly walked the 
floor, supporting himself a little with his cane ; for 
although his foot had entirely healed, there was still 
a sensitiveness about it when pressed, that induced 
him to favor it in walking. 

The right or wrong of his conduct in no way 
trouble or influenced Templeton. 

All he cared for was success. 

That, he believed, would certainly be assured 
through Miller, in whom he had implicit confidence ; 
but into Miller’s hands he did not care to trust every- 
thing — and because of that unwillingness, he deliber- 
ately concluded to retain the affections of the detec- 
tive’s daughter, and be guided by his necessities, when 
the question of matrimony arose. 

Presently, Mary returned, and said : “ Oh, Mr. Rus- 


MARY MILLER FASCINATED. 


201 


sell, here is some new music we have just received ; 
wouldn’t you like to come down stairs and hear me 
^ try it ? It’s an arrangement of Aida, and they say it 
• is perfectly changing.” 

Templeton acquiesced, and together they went to 
the parlor, but it was some time before the piano was 
opened, for, drawing Mary to a seat, the curious 
fellow said : “ Mary, we have been thrown very 
strangely together. Why, of course, you do not 
know, nor is it necessary that you should. Suffice it 
that being here, a happy fate has made me* almost 
your constant companion. Before my accident, you 
were kindness itself, but during the two weeks of my 
confinement to my room, had you been my own 
sister, or my lover, I could not have asked or looked 
for more attentive courtesy and help.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Russell, surely I did nothing more than 
was natural,” said Mary. 

“That I grant,” continued Templeton; “and the 
fact that it was so natural, is all the more creditable 
to you, and perhaps more complimentary to me. I 
find our tastes are similar. You are fond of reading, 
and on your shelves are the books I prize the most. 
You are devoted to music, and how our likes and 
dislikes in that direction harmonize, you know very 
well. On the whole, I think we are tolerably good 
friends, Mary, and why not more than good friends? 
Why not the best of friends ? ” 

. 9 * 


202 


MARY MILLER FASCINATED. 


Templeton had gone further than he intended. 

Had he been talking to a woman of the world, he 
might have continued in that strain indefinitely, sat- 
isfying himself and amusing her. 

Had he been practicing his arts upon a flirt, he 
might have met his match in retort and repartee. 

But Mary was neither one nor the other. 

She was a genuine woman. 

To her a spade was a spade. 

She had no lovers. Her father and Mr. Delaney 
were tlie only men she had ever known intimately. 
Her only outside life had been .in the school-room. 
She was but eighteen years old. She never lied. She 
knew nothing of the world, its tricks, or its manners 
She believed what she heard, and invariably said pre- 
cisely what she meant. 

She loved Templeton. 

To be sure, he had never uttered a syllable 
which could be construed into a declaration or an 
invitation. 

But she loved him. 

And now that he had, with tender accent, respect- 
fully, courteously and with apparent sincerity, asked 
if she knew any reason why they should not be the 
“ best of friends,” it seemed as if her dream of happi- 
ness had been realized. 

Turning quickly to him, Mary looked her lover 
full in the eye, with unmistakable meaning, and 


MARY MILLER FASCINATED. 


20 3 

then as he pressed her closely to his heart, she whis- 
pered her consent. 

If there is a Devil, how happy such scenes must 
make him ! 







CHAPTER XXIX. 


ON THE ROCKS. 



OOR Hardy ! 

How he chafed, and rolled, and tumbled, 
in his bed ! 

The days were years, the weeks were ages. It 
seemed to him as if his life was a blank, and he a 
cipher. 

That is, it seemed so until Maud Russell’s daily 
visits made his life a holiday, and his experience an 
intoxication. 

Probably many may regard Maud’s every-day call 
with disfavor. 

That is their privilege. 

The fact is, she did go every day in every week, 
carrying flowers and fruits, and books and cheeriness 
of angelic type, making the sick chamber, radiant with 
joy, and the sick man a convalescent speedily. 

Of all the men here told of, John Hardy was most 
liked by Horace Russell. 


ON THE ROCKS. 


205 


He was a fine specimen of manhood — tall, straight 
and strong. 

His features were regular, blit not feminine. His 
eye and lip showed courage, and his manner, though 
not offensive, was aggressive rather than quiet. 

Mr. Russell had “ taken to ” him at the very first, 
and every interview increased his respect and esteem 
for him. He found him earnest, intelligent and truth- 
ful, and when, in a moment, the young man was re- 
duced to a scarcely breathing mass of flesh and bones, 
the strong Englishman felt as if part of himself had 
been broken away. 

With Maud, Hardy had been thrown but very little 
until the trip westward. 

She had seen him everyday at the hotel in New 
York, and he had been one of the party of four on 
their excursions in and about the city ; still, until the 
memorable ride, which ended in disaster, Maud had 
really felt but little interest in the young man, on 
whose skill and service so much of her father’s future 
happiness depended. 

Love of romance has a strong hold on a young 
girl’s mind. 

Of late Hardy had seemed to Maud like a charac- 
ter in fiction, rather than a being of ordinary type. 

His personal history had interested her, as it had 
her parents. His chivalrous endeavor to preserve her 
life, and shield her person, inspired her with gratitude. 


206 


ON THE ROCKS. 


His suffering and long confinement excited her sym- 
pathy. And now that he was slowly gaining, being 
permitted to sit in his chair several hours every day, 
his pale face and lustrous eyes, and evident delight at 
her attention, elicited an interest which strengthened 
at every interview. 

Mrs. Russell and Maud always called together, but 
on several occasions Maud remained, while her moth- 
er drove elsewhere, and read to Hardy the news of 
the day, or from such current literature as she thought 
would divert his mind. 

Insensibly they became well acquainted and thor- 
oughly at home in each other’s presence. 

Hardy was one of Nature’s gentlemen — a much 
better article than that of the world, although not so 
good a dancer. 

He would have died rather than say or do aught 
that could offend Maud Russell, and yet he loved her 
with all his heart, and worshipped her very shadow. 

While she was with him, he was in heaven ; and 
when she was gone, he counted the hours till she 
should return. 

By day, he thought of her ; by night, he dreamed of 
her. . 

And why not ? 

What insurmountable difference was there between 
them ? 

Money ! 


ON THE ROCKS. 


207 


Nothing but money ! 

Not that John Hardy sneered at money. No sen- 
sible person does that. Money is a good friend, 
though a bad master. What a good man can do with 
money can never be exaggerated. And the good men 
who insist that money is nothing to them, and pro- 
claim that they are happier without it than they would 
be with it, are either liars or fools. 

The world never yet saw the sane man who would 
not gladly take all the money he could honestly get. 

One might as well decline to use his brains, or his 
hands, or his feet, or any other useful convenience, as 
to ridicule the usefulness and desirability of money — 
and the more the better. 

Still, as between John Hardy and Maud Russell, 
money was the only embarrassment. 

Maud had none, but her father had millions. 

“ Suppose,” thought Hardy, in one of his ten thou- 
sand dreams ; “ suppose I could win Maud’s heart, 
how could I gain her hand ? I know her parents like 
me, but would they consent ? These English people 
think so much of social position, and I am only a de- 
tective, the son of a scavenger ! ” 

Poor Hardy ! 

Over and over again, he thought and thought the 
same old story, and it always ended the same way. 
He could not seem to bring it to any other close. “ I 
am only a detective, the son of a scavenger.” 


208 


ON THE ROCKS. 


One day Maud came alone. 

Hardy was sitting up as usual, and had been felici- 
tating himself on the progress which enabled him, for 
the first time that morning, to walk unaided from his 
bedside to the adjoining room, when Maud Russell 
entered. 

Something had happened. 

The girl was bewilderingly beautiful. 

Her eyes were half filled with tears, and fairly bright 
with excitement. 

Without stopping for explanation or query as to 
Hardy’s condition, Maud broke out : “ Oh, Mr. 
Hardy, what do you think, what do you think we’ve 
found ? There’s no doubt about it. Mr. Miller says 
so, and father says so, and father’s almost wild with 
he doesn’t know what ; ” and bursting into tears, the 
excited girl sat down, sobbing from the bottom of her 
heart. 

Hardy was alarmed. 

He had always seen Maud so quiet and composed, 
so perfect in deportment, so self-poised and gentle 
in her bearing, that this flood of passion disconcerted 
him. 

His experience should have taught him that a calm 
and placid exterior is rarely an exponent of a womanly 
interior. 

All he did or said was: ‘‘Why; what’s the mat- 
ter ? ” 


ON THE ROCKS. 


209 

“A great deal’s the matter,” replied Maud, who 
threw back her veil, wiped her eyes, arranged her 
hat by the glass, and continuing, said : “ You know 
papa and that horrid Miller have been trying to find 
that 1 little Bob,’ that ma and I never have believed in, 
and they’ve been writing to Boston — but you know 
all about that, for papa told you. Well, they’ve found 
who he is, but they don’t know where he is.’ And 
who do you think he is ? The last man on the face 
of the earth that anybody would have dreamed of. 
Guess.” 

“Why, bless your heart, I never could guess. I 
might guess one man as well as another,” said Hardy, 

“Well, it’s Mr. Lieutenant William Templeton,” 
cried Maud, springing to her feet ; u thafs who it is. 
Now, what do you think of that ? ” 

John Hardy looked like a ghost. He was as pale 
as a sheet, and about as stiff. Two thoughts present- 
ed themselves at once : 

Either Templeton was an infamous and a success- 
ful scoundrel ; 

Or, he was sincere and in earnest when he told 
Hardy that he was Russell’s son, and wanted Hardy 
to help him prove it. 

If the former were the fact, how could Hardy bluff 
him ? 

If the latter, farewell to all hope of happiness with 
Maud. 


210 


ON THE ROCKS. 


“ Well, what do you mean by saying your father is 
almost wild ? ” asked Hardy, at last. 

“ Why, father hates Templeton. The very sight of 
the man used to make him cross and ugly. He for- 
bade us to speak to him. He actually hated him, 
and now to find out that he is his own son ; that they 
have been rude to each other ; that — oh, I don’t know ; 
it does seem to me as if everything and everybody was 
mad and out of sorts. Papa will be here, by and 
by. Mamma told me to drive down, and to tell you 
to be just as cool and calm as you can be ; for papa 
is dreadfully excited. And he trusts that old Miller 
almost as much as he does you ; but we don’t. Mam- 
ma and I never liked him. He rolls that wicked old 
eye all over the wall, and never looks .at anybody. I 
hate him. But you’ll be cool, won’t you ? ” 

Hardy laughed in spite of himself. 

It seemed to him that Maud’s endeavors to keep 
him cool, were very much like the effort made to 
keep powder safe, by stirring it with a red hot poker. 

He had no time to reply before the door opened, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Russell entered. 

Horace Russell was getting on towards his fifty- 
fifth year, but he felt as if he were in his prime. 

He enjoyed perfect health, and this long rest from 
active and constant business life was doing him an 
immensity of good. 

He was handsome as a picture. 


ON THE ROCKS. 


2 1 1 


His head was bald, but his eye was strong and 
clear. No beard obscured the perfect lines of face 
and mouth, and chin. His body was erect and stal- 
wart, and every action told of the manhood of the man. 

Although greatly excited, his strong common sense 
controlled an exhibition of his feeling. Taking Hardy 
by the hand, he said : “ My dear boy, you cannot 
know, you never can, how perfectly delighted I am 
at your progress. I thank God, day and night, for it. 
You look better, you are better, and the doctor tells 
me we can have you with us : at the hotel next Sun- 
day. Much as I want, yes, much as I need you, you 
know I am most glad for your own sake. Doesn’t he 
look bright to-day, mother ? ” 

Maud and Hardy were deceived, but Mrs. Russell 
was not. 

She knew that her husband meant every word he 
said. 

But she also knew that his heart was crushed, and 
his soul in agony at the news brought that morning by 
Miller’s eastern mail. 

Sweetly smiling, Mrs. Russell, who was the embod- 
iment of all good old-fashioned ideas of motherliness, 
took Hardy’s hand in hers, and turning to her hus- 
band, said :• “ Mr. Hardy is doing so well, dear, that 
he will forgive you for being selfish to-day. Sit down 
and tell him just how you feel, and what you have 
heard.” 


212 


ON THE ROCKS. 


“I see Maud has told you the news,” said Mr. 
Russell. 

“ Only a little, papa,” said Maude. “ You would 
better commence at the beginning and tell him all.” 

Mrs. Russell handed her husband a chair, and he 
proceeded with his report. 

“ I told you that Miller had heard from the Boston 
people the bare fact of ‘Bob’ Delaney’s leaving the 
workhouse hospital, and being adopted by some un- 
known party, didn’t I?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Hardy ; “ that was the last I 
heard.” 

“Well, I told Miller to send $100 to his friend, 
and direct him to follow that clue. He did so, and 
last night Miller received this letter, which he brought 
to me this morning. I’ll read it to you, if I can, for 
I declare, it has almost taken my pluck and strength 
away. I’ll tell you why afterwards. Here, mother, 
you read it. Oh, you haven’t brought your glasses. 
Daughter, you read it, I — upon my word, I dislike 
even to look at it.” 

Maud read the letter as follows, and Hardy listened 
as if to a choir of angels : 


Boston, October 22 d, 1874 . 

Mr. Charles Miller, 

Police headquarters, Chicago. 

“Sir — Your favor of the 18th was duly received, 


ON THE ROCKS. 


213 

and requests noted. I am pleased to reply that with- 
out much trouble I can satisfy your bill of inquiry. 
It seems that the boy ‘ Bob ' was entered on the books 
as ‘ Bill,’ and when taken to the hospital that was all 
the name he had. I was in some doubt as to his 
being the' boy, but I have found a sister of the man 
who adopted him, a maiden lady living in Chelsea, 
who satisfied me on that point. She went with her 
brother to see the boy while he was sick, and when 
her brother brought him home, she heard him ask the 
boy whether he preferred to be called by his old 
name or take a new one. And she tells how pleased 
her brother was when the little chap said : ‘I’ll take 
your name if you’ll let- me.’ So I am confident on 
that point. The rest is simple. The boy was thence- 
forth known as William Templeton. He went into 
the navy, and now he is a lieutenant in the service. 

“ If I can be of any further use, command me, and 
it shall be done. Respectfully, 

“ James Howes, 

“ State Constabulary.” 

“ What do you think of that ? ” sai Mr. Russell. 

“ Where is Templeton ? ” said Hardy, without 
noticing the question. 

“ We don’t know,” replied Mr. Russell. “ He left 
New York very suddenly, and has never been heard 
of since.” 


214 


ON THE ROCKS. 


“ Does Miller know him ? ” 

“ I think not ; he said he must try to hunt him 
up.” 

“ The doctor says I can go out on Sunday, does 
he ? ” said Hardy. “ Well, that’s day after to-mor- 
row. I think, when I join you at the hotel, I must 
meet Miller. You know he has never seen me. I’ll 
meet him in your parlors as an English friend just ar- 
rived, and perhaps I can judge him better there than 
I could if he were on his guard against a fellow offi- 
cer. Meanwhile, let him talk and plan, and report 
It may be he is perfectly honest, and Templeton is 
your son ; it may not be. I feel that there is some 
trickery, but ” 

“ Oh, my God,” said Mr. Russell. “ I thank you, 
Hardy. Much as I love my boy, much as I long, 
yes, hunger for him, I cannot believe that man to be 
my son. Hardy, my boy, I won’t insult you by talk- 
ing of money. I trust you, my dear fellow, absolute- 
ly. We all do. Mother will tell you how perfectly 
I trust you. Now, don’t let me weary you, but for 
Heaven’s sake put your wits to work. If there is 
any trickery here, let’s have it out. If not — well, 
Heaven’s will, not mine, be done.” 

Hardy grasped the poor man by the hand, but he 
could not speak. 

He saw the grief and the wreck, but he dared not 
tell his suspicions. 


ON THE ROCKS. 


215 

If Templeton really were the son, it would only 
make matters worse to expose his meanness and 
craft. 

i If he were not the son, time and circumstances 
would doubtless establish the fact. 

But Miller was now in Hardy’s mind. 

And, sharp and shrewd, and hard as Miller undeni- 
ably was, it was a bad place for Miller to be. 







CHAPTER XXX. 

' MILLER DOES SOME TALKING. 

ACT is often quite as strange as fiction, and 
odd as it may seem, although the Rus- 
sells had been several times to hear Mr. 
Delaney preach, and, on one occasion, the young 
clergyman had passed an evening with the ladies : — 
Mr. Russell having an engagement elsewhere — the 
fact that his name was “ Robert ” had never been 
made known. 

Indeed, if it had been, it is doubtful if they would 
have thought anything of it, for their confidence in 
Miller had not been shaken, although Maud disliked 
him from the first. 

And yet the simple fact remained that Mr. Russell 
was spending money like water, hoping to find a 
“Bob” Delaney, and was now confronted with one 
who had changed his name to “William Templeton,” 
while in his own parlor his wife and daughter were 
entertaining the “ Bob ” of his search. 

Of this Miller had satisfied himself beyond a doubt. 



MILLER DOES SOME TALKING. 


217 


He knew perfectly well that old Delaney, the 
builder, the “ father ” of Robert Delaney, had never 
returned to New York ; that he had never left Chi- 
cago at all. He knew when and how he died ; and he 
knew the young man at whose church his daughter 
attended, and who visited at his house, was the iden- 
tical “Bob” for whom his employer searched. 

As yet he did not know that he was also the son 
whom Mr. Russell lost. 

But he was in dread of such a revelation, and feared 
every day of his life that some accident would confirm 
his suspicions. 

Neither did he know that Mr. Russell had met Mr. 
Delaney, much less that the clergyman was an occa- 
sional caller at his rooms. 

Judge then, his surprise, when, on Saturday after- 
noon, prior to the anticipated Sunday of Hardy’s 
emancipation, Miller came face to face with Mr. Rus- 
sell and Mr. Delaney in the corridor of the hotel. 

Mr. Delaney’s greeting was cordial and straight- 
forward, but it was really a test of Miller’s admirable 
training. He controlled himself perfectly, and when 
Mr. Russell said : “ Ah, you know, Mr. Miller, do 
you, Mr. Delaney ? ” both men smiled, and with 
some affirmatory remark, the three passed up stairs 
to Mr. Russell’s rooms. 

“ Anything new, Miller ? ” asked Mr. Russell. 

“Yes, a little,” said the detective, “I find that ' 
to 


218 miller does some talking. 

oar bird took passage for Nassau about the time you 
say he left New York. His resignation from the ser- 
vice was dated the day before he sailed. I have sent 
a letter, or rather the Chief has, to the consul there,* 
with instructions upon two points only. They are, 
first : ‘ Has Tenipleton lost a little toe ? ’ and second, 

‘ When is he coming back to the United States ? ’ ” 

“Very important that,” broke in Mr. Russell; “I 
declare, Miller, you give me new life. That man 
never lost a toe ; I know he never did. His walk 
was perfect. Bless my soul ! do you know I never 
thought of that ? Of course he never lost a toe.” 

“But, my dear sir,” said Miller, “what am I to 
understand? Do you want to find your man or don’t 
you?” 

Mr. Russell looked at Miller sharply. 

He remembered what Hardy had said, and here 
at the very first interview, he was disclosing to Miller 
his feelings and his fears. 

“Why should I distrust this man?” thought he. 
“He is recommended to me by his chief. He stands 
at the head of his fellows. He has been kind and 
industrious. I pay him well. What can he gain by 
being false. What will he not gain, if successful ? 
I’ll tell him all.” 

Thus resolving, Mr. Russell drew Miller away from 
the group, and putting his honest hand on the old 
rascal’s shoulder, said : “ Miller, I know this man 


MILLER DOES SOME TALKING. 


219 


Templeton. He was a fellow-passenger of ours. I 
disliked him exceedingly. He was attentive to my 
daughter, and although that is generally an open 
door to a father’s heart, I disliked him all the more. 
And besides, I am not Maud’s father. She was Mrs. 
Russell’s child by a former husband.” 

Miller’s red hair wanted to stand up, but Miller’s 
detective nerve kept his red hair down. 

“ Not liis daughter,” thought he; “what then might 
become of Mary, his own daughter, whose affections 
he saw plainly were twined and interlaced with Tem- 
pleton’s very life. If Templeton could be proved Mr. 
Russell’s son — he thought — of course he could not 
marry Russell’s daughter : and if he married Miller’s 
daughter, there was another bond between the father 
and the conspirator.” But this revelation opened a 
way by which Templeton might play Miller false. 

Once let it be shown that Templeton was Russell’s 
son, and that Maud was not Russell’s daughter, what 
could bar their marriage ? 

Meanwhile Mr. Russell, all unconscious of the 
hubbub he had caused in Miller’s mind, proceeded: 

“ She was Mrs. Russell’s child by a former hus- 
band, but I love her as my own. She was passion- 
ately fond of Lieut. Templeton, but I would not per- 
mit her to see him. After the fire, the dear child 
seemed to droop, and reluctantly we consented that 
Templeton should call. A note was sent inviting him 


220 


MILLER DOES SOME TALKING. 


to do so, but it was unanswered. He nevef sent a 
word of apology or regret, or explanation ; and I had 
hoped we should never hear his cursed name again. 
Judge then, Miller, how utterly unprepared I was 
for such an i astounding revelation as yours. I feel 
that there is no truth in it. And yet — do not misun- 
derstand me, I do not doubt you — the trace seems 
clear, and I see that your mind is settled — ” 

“Hold on, Mr. Russell,” said Miller, with well as- 
sumed warmth; “if you were to say to me, ‘Miller, I 
don’t want this followed up,’ that would end it. But 
don’t make any mistake. I’m by no manner of 
means settled in my mind. No, sir. What I want is, 
first of all, to see that toe ! Or, rather not to see that 
toe. And after that I want to see the rest of him. 
I think we must both own up that the clue so far is a 
strong one. But suppose he has never lost a toe — 
that settles it, doesn’t it? Well, then. But if, on the 
other hand, his toe is gone, we must admit again that 
the clue is all the stronger. And then if, on acquain- 
ance and careful examination, we find he is the 
boy, why it seems to me, as honest men, we must 
say so. 

“ If you don’t like the fellow you needn’t have any- 
thing to do with him. He can’t prove himself your 
son, unless you help him, can he ? Well, then. Now 
you just leave this to me. If you don’t want another 
step taken, the job stops right here. If you do, on it 


MILLER DOES SOME TALK IN \ 


221 


goes. Very much depends on the toe, and after all 
he may be a nicer fellow than you thought.” 

Mr. Russell was impressed by Miller’s manner, and 
had it not been for a recollection of John Hardy’s 
advice, would very likely have yielded then and there. 

As it was, he simply said : “ Come and see me to- 
morrow evening. I’ll think it all over, &nd by that 
time we will come to some conclusion.” 

Miller bowed himself out without much formality, 
and Mr. Russell turned to Mr. Delaney, who, with 
the ladies, was looking at the sunset from the window. 

“That’s a queer character, Mr. Delaney,” said 
Mr. Russell. 

“ Oh, Miller ? Yes, indeed. I can never make out 
whether he is in fun or in earnest,” said Mr. De- 
laney; “his daughters attend my church and are 
among my warmest friends. I have visited at the 
house a great deal, though I see but little of the 
father. He is certainly a very strange man to have 
such charming daughters. One of them, by the way, 
is betrothed to a gentleman of your name, Mr. 
Russell.” 

“ Do you know him ? ” asked Maud. 

“No. I have never met him, but he is well 
spoken of, naturally, by the young ladies, and I 
judge, from all I hear, he is quite accomplished. He 
lives in New York, I believe ; but really I don’t know 
anything about it.” 


222 


MILLER DOES SOME TALKING > 


“ It seems strange that Miller should have two 
daughters and never allude to them,” said Maud. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said her father; “we have had 
nothing to do with him outside of business ; although, 
come to think of it, all the time we were in Milwaukee 
he received no letters, and never spoke of home at all.” 

“ I suppose men in his position sink their individ- 
uality in their business,” suggested the clergyman. 

“Yes, and they are naturally chary of their con- 
fidence,” said Mr. Russell ; “ but I have met one offi- 
cer of whose friendship and regard I shall always be 
proud. When we left New York a young man named 
Hardy, John Hardy, was assigned to aid me in my 
search, and, as doubtless you remember, he was very 
seriously injured in the accident from which we so 
providentially escaped. I think I never met a young 
man so prudent, so clear-headed, so honest. I de- 
clare I feel toward him as if he were my own son. 
He has won my heart completely, and as for mother 
here, she thinks there never was such a man.” 

“ Oh, father, that’s rather strong,” said Mrs. Rus- 
sell ; “but we certainly have cause to be grateful to 
Mr. Hardy, and, as Mr. Russell says, he seems 
honesty and goodness itself.” 

“ I’m sure I like him,” said Maud ; “ I always 
did like him. He was so respectful and kind to papa, 
and then he saved my life, you know, Mr. Delaney ; 
and ■” 


MILLER DOES SOME TALKING. 


223 

“And so you chant his praises,” laughingly said 
Mr. Delaney ; “ that is right, perfectly right. And 
where is Mr. Hardy ? ” 

“ He is still at the hospital,” said Mr. Russell; 
“ but he will be here to-morrow, and before we leave 
town r I hope you will meet him. You will take to 
each other, I know.” 

In some way the conversation turned. Mr. Rus- 
sell and his wife, anxious and ill at ease about Tem- 
pleton* while Maud and Mr. Delaney, after talking 
about some new music Maud had bought, went to 
the piano, where, for a long time, the petted, girl en 
tertained the visitor, and cheered the sorrowing hearts 
of her troubled parents. 

How or why, we never know and can never explain, 
but, at times, that which on other occasions would 
seem offensive and intrusive, becomes most natural 
and welcome. 

And so it was that Mr. Delaney, who felt, without 
knowing, that something had disturbed the comfort of 
his hosts, cemented the regard already existing as a 
bond between his new friends and himself, by saying : 
“ Before I go, let us ask the direction and blessing of 
our Father,” and, kneeling at his chair, he uttered a 
tender, honest petition for protection, guidance and 
forgiveness, to which, with one accord, they said : 
“ Amen.” 



CHAPTER XXXI. 


BEWARE, POOR GIRL ; BEWARE. 

Miller left Mr. Russell’s hotel he pulled 
iat hard and far down over his eye. 

Very word he had told his employer 

was false. 

It had not been received as he had hoped. 

Templeton had, indeed, informed him of Mr. Rus- 
sell's dislike, but Miller had detected a muck deeper 
feeling than simple dislike. 

He saw that the very name of Templeton was dis- 
tasteful to the entire family, and that Maud, instead 
of hailing the news with joy and hope, shared her 
father’s annoyance and repugnance. 

And then, too, Delaney’s presence troubled the de- 
tective. 

“ How came he there ? What is he there for ? Is it 
possible that other trails are being followed ? ” These 
and kindred queries thrust themselves upon Miller’s 
perplexed mind, and insisted upon solution. 

Since- undertaking this search, Miller had not 
touched a drop of liquor. Now and then he took a 



BEWARE , POOR GIRL. 


225 


pint of ale or a glass of beer, but nothing stronger. 
He had deliberately chosen Templeton as against 
Russell, and having laid out his programme, pursued 
it with absolute loyalty. He had given time and 
money and thought to the prosecution of his plan. 
He had kept Templeton at his own house, had com- 
pelled him to sacrifice his toe, had gone off on long 
trips, apparently on Mr. Russell’s business, but in 
reality to further Mr. Russell’s deception, and had 
gradually worked up his case so that it was now sus- 
ceptible almost of exact demonstration that Temple- 
ton, little “ Bob,” and the lost Harry Russell were 
one and the same person. 

Miller had done all this, but with a detective’s in- 
tuition he felt that something was wrong. 

Whether it was Delaney or Templeton upon whom 
his plan would wreck, he could not determine. 

In his heart he believed Robert Delandy was Mr. 
Russell’s son. 

He had devoted days to the investigation, and Had 
clearly proven to himself that the clergyman was not 
the son of the old builder, that he was the boy who 
was sent with Delaney from the Tombs, and that he 
was lame. 

But the toe ? • 

Miller had done his best to ascertain if Mr. De- 
laney had lost a toe, but without success. He had 

ingeniously pumped his bootmaker and tailor. He 
10* 


226 


BEWARE, BOOR GIRL. 


had talked with the men who were in Delaney’s 
regiment. He had followed him for hours in the 
streets. 

And he was as ignorant now r as at the first. 

Dreading the possibilities of confidence between 
Mr. Russell and his new friend, Miller determined to 
bring the Templeton development to an immediate 
issue, and went directly home. 

He found Templeton sitting with Mary in the dim- 
ly lighted parlor and greeted them both cheerily. 

His daughter welcomed him with a loving embrace, 
and hastened to order dinner. 

Templeton and Miller were alone together. 

The old man placed one hand on the knee of the 
handsome youth beside him, and said very quietly : 
“ No nonsense, young man ; no nonsense there. If 
you don’t love that girl, don’t pretend to.” 

Templeton colored up and began to speak, but 
Miller interrupted him and simply said : “ There now, 
that’ll do, I know you pretty well, and you know me. 
All I say is, no nonsense ; and that ends it. After 
dinner I want to see you alone. You propose a walk 
or a game of back-gammon up-stairs, and whatever 
you say, I’ll agree to.” 

♦ Templeton saw that Miller meant all he said, and 
inwardly resolved to back out of his pleasantry 
with Mary before the father’s ire had good cause to 


rise. 


BEWARE, POOR GIRL . 


227 

And poor Mary ? Oh ! he didn’t think of her at 
all. He cared for Templeton, not for Mary. 

At the dinner table sat two scoundrels and two in- 
nocents. The scoundrels were quiet and thoughtful. 
So were- the innocents. 

Miller was completing his plans. 

Templeton was seeking a way out of his social em- 
barrassment. 

Martha had received a long, loving letter from Mr. 
Delaney, and was expecting a call from him in the 
morning. 

And Mary’s heart was filled with love and admira-. 
tion for the only man she had ever really known, and 
for whom she was willing to give up all else that made 
home happy and life endurable. 

Each was so occupied that the other’s occupation 
was not noticed, until Miller saw the absurdity of a 
Quaker meeting then and there, and twinkling his eye 
at Martha, said : “ Well, baby, how goes our parish ? 
Anybody dead, anybody born ? ” 

Quick to appreciate her father’s intent, Martha 
laughed and said : “ Oh, yes. And we are to give Mr. 
Delaney a house-warming on Monday night. He goes 
into the parsonage to-day, and the church people have 
arranged a surprise party there on Monday night. I 
want you to go with us, Mr. Russell, won’t you?” 

“He would if he could, I have no doubt,” said Mil- 
ler ; “ but he won’t be in town on Monday.” 


228 BEWARE , POOR GIRL. 

As he spoke Miller pressed Templeton’s foot under 
the table, and taking the hint, he said : “ I am really 
very sorry. I would go with pleasure. But, as your 
father says, I shall probably be away. I don’t doubt 
you will have a jolly time. But be careful. Don’t 
monopolize the pastor. You’ll make all the others 
jealous if you do.” 

Templeton uttered his protest jokingly, but he un- 
wittingly hit a nail squarely on the head. 

Mr. Delaney’s respect for Martha Miller had grown 
into friendship, thence to regard, and finally to unspo- 
ken love. 

His attentions attracted observation and remark, 
until it was necessary for him to stop or go on. 

He preferred to go on, and to that end wrote his 
fair parishioner a letter, in which he in a very manly 
and characteristic way laid his circumstances and 
plans before her, told her that he loved her and ask- 
ed her to be his wife, promising to call early the next 
day for an answer. 

Martha had, of course, told her sister of Mr. Dela- 
ney’s proposal, but had as yet found no opportunity of 
speaking to her father. Her heart had answered 
“ yes ” almost before the question had been put in 
form, and she knew her father so well, that his acqui- 
escence in aught that could contribute to her happiness 
was sure to be given. 

Rising from her chair Martha went to her father 


BEWARE, POOR GIRL. 


229 

and placing her arm about his neck, kissed him ten- 
derly on the forehead. “ I want to see you alone, 
papa,” she whispered, and with another kiss left the 
room. 

As Miller prepared to follow his daughter, Temple- 
ton said : “ I haven’t been out of the house to-day, 
Mr. Miller ; what do you say to a little tramp down to 
the lake. Can you spare the time ? ” 

“Yes, of course I can. Wait till I speak with 
Martha a moment. Then I’ll take a pipe and join 
you,” said Miller, and off he went. 

Templeton and Mary were left to themselves and 
withdrew to the parlor, where Mary took her seat at 
the piano and sang. 

Her voice was very sweet and true. 

She was especially fond of singing “ The Wander- 
er,” and Templeton was especially fond of hearing 
it. 

He rather liked the girl. 

She was pretty, graceful, good. 

She made no concealment of her regard for him, 
and he knew he had but to say the word, and she 
would go or stay, fly to the end of the world with him 
or wait his time for an honorable and happy union. 

But that word he had never spoken. 

And Miller’s warning had convinced him that to 
speak it and not mean it, would involve him in a quar- 
rei with a man who would butcher him as readily 


BEWARE, POOR GIRL. 


230 

and unconcernedly as he would an ox. So he deter- 
mined not to speak it. 

And the poor girl gave her heart to a man who 
not only did not want it, but was afraid to take 
it. 




CHAPTER XXXH. 


FOREWARNED FOREARMED. 



TLLER rejoined Templeton after half an 
hour’s absence and together they walked to- 
wards the lake. Miller puffed vigorously 
at his pipe, but did not speak. And Templeton, who 
was greatly embarrassed'by his equivocal position with 
Mary, limped very gingerly, as he blew great smoky 
rings from underneath his long moustache. 

Martha had shown Mr. Delaney’s letter to her father 
and read it to him as she sat upon his knee. 

The old fellow had a soft heart for his children and 
he assented at once to her desire. 

But what a vision rose up before him. 

His own daughter cheated by himself ! 

Her husband, the real Harry Russell, swindled out 
of home and property and love by the rascality of her 
own father ! 

A liar and pretender seated in the chair which of 
right belongs to Martha’s husband ! and he the instru- 
ment by which the infamy was done ! 




FOREWARNED . 


232 

Even Miller was disconcerted. He had no fear of 
Templeton, but he had given his mind to accomplish 
a certain end, — had taken pay for it. He was not 
responsible for the curious combination of circum- 
stances attending the case. But 

Oh, those “buts.” 

“What shall I do?” thought Miller. 

“ Martha loves and will marry Mr. Delaney. It is 
only necessary now, to complete the extraordinary 
drama, for Mary to love and marry Templeton. 

“ Sooner or later it will all come out. 

“ Well, what if it does ? 

“ The girls love each other and the lucky one will 
take care of the other.” 

But the more Miller thought, the more complicated 
matters became. 

The entanglements seemed endless. 

He could get no aid from Templeton. He had 
tried him before. Whatever Miller suggested, Tem- 
pleton would carry into effect ; but his mind was 
not fertile and his inventive faculty was unde- 
veloped. 

Finally, Miller knocked the ashes out of his pipe, 
filled up, lighted, puffed, and then said: “Temple- 
ton, we’re in a bad box; but it’s a wise father who 
knows his own son, and I hope for the best. You 
know I have all along had my fears that Delaney 
would be in our way, so I investigated him. I believe, 


FOREWARNED . 


233 

as firmly as* I believe we live, that Delaney is Russell’s 
son.” 

“The devil !” said Templeton. 

“Yes, and all his angels,” said Miller; “and if I 
only knew for certain, that he had lost his toe, I’d 
swear that he is Harry Russell. But, as you know, I 
have been busy in our matter, and this afternoon I 
followed up my Templeton suggestion, by giving Mr. 
Russell a report of your having gone to Nassau, of 
our Chiefs writing to the consul there, and so on. He 
took it hard. He doesn’t like you. His wife doesn’t 
like you. And the daughter is worse than either of ’em. 
Still, he seems to be a square kind of a man, and if it 
turns out to his satisfaction, toe and all, that you are his 
son, in you go, and time must take care of the rest.” 

“Well, I don’t see any very ‘bad box’ so -far,” said 
Templeton. 

“ Of course you don’t, because I haven’t shown it to 
you yet. The ‘ bad box ’ is made up of two important 
facts ; their dislike of you, and their acquaintance with 
Robert Delaney.” 

“Whew ! I see,” said Templeton. 

“ And if to that,” continued Miller, “ they should 
in any particular distrust me, why up goes the sponge 
and the jig is over.” 

“ Well, what’s to be done ? ” asked Templeton. 

“ My idea is this. You go to New York, and stay 
there for about a week. On the arrival of a steamei 


FOREWARNED. 


234 

from Nassau, have the papers announce the arrival of 
Lieut. William Templeton, U. S. N., at some first-class 
hotel. I’ll show that to Mr. Russell, and at the same 
time I’ll have a copy of a letter from the Consul to our 
Chief giving a good account of you, and telling all we 
want to know, except the toe. That we’ll keep for a 
grand sensation. You can take the Pacific express 
to-morrow morning at ten, and from that on we must 
trust to luck, and stare fate in the face.” 

“All right, Miller,” said Templeton; “you are a 
‘brick,’ and ten to one we’ll come out ahead in this 
matter yet. But how about Hardy? I understood 
from a paragraph in last night’s paper that he was not 
doing well ; had had a relapse or something.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Miller, “ about that. I do 
know, however, that it’s a mighty fortunate thing for us, 
that we have not had another smart fellow to bother. 
Why, he might have upset the whole affair, if he had 
been with me all the time. As it is, I never hear him 
mentioned without a shudder.” 

And so talking, these two worthies gradually neared 
the house, and were about entering when suddenly 
Miller stopped. 

Catching his companion by the arm, he said : 
“Templeton, you know I like you, but, I dyn’t value 
your whole carcase, soul included, as much as the 
least of the hairs of Mary’s head. I have seen with 
some dread her regard for you ; for I know you, root 


FOREWARNED. 


2 35 

and branch. Still, if you are serious and the girl insists 
upon it I won’t stand in your way. But — •” and here 
Miller drew nearer to Templeton’s ear, “if you are not 
serious, and aught of harm befalls my girl, expect no 
mercy from me. I’d shoot you like a dog.” 

Templeton endeavored to laugh and speak freely, 
but he failed. 

He knew it, and Miller knew it. 

The rest of the evening was passed pleasantly in the 
parlor, but Templeton retired first, instead of waiting 
as his custom was, until Miller and Martha had gone, 
that he might steal a farewell kiss from Marv. 




« 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

TWO PLAYING A\ THE SAME GAME, ONE BADLY 

BEATEN. 

# 

HN HARDY’S arrival was an event in the 
hotel life of the Russell family. 

Though not entirely strong, the young 
man was able to walk from the hospital door to the 
carriage, and when Mr. Russell offered assistance to 
help him up stairs at the hotel, it was declined as un- 
necessary. 

A pleasant room adjoining Mr. Russell’s suite had 
been engaged for Hardy under the name of Wilson, 
by which name he was to make the acquaintance of 
Miller. 

Mrs. Russell and Maud had placed flowers on the 
table, and given to the room as home-like an air as 
was possible ; but Hardy needed no other charm than 
that of the kindly grasp of the hand, and the undis- 
guised delight in the countenance of every member of 
the little family, of whom for a brief period he was now 
to be part* 



BADLY BEATEN. 


237 


Hardy’s mind was active, and worked rapidly. He 
had devoted much thought to the complication as re- 
ported by Mr. Russell at their last interview, and 
confessed himself embarrassed. 

“If it can be proven that William Templeton was 
the identical Bob Delaney, what right,” thought Hardy, 
“ have I to throw discredit upon him ? 

“And if detective Miller has really done a good 
piece of work while I was laid up at the hospital, what 
right have I to appear as a marplot and upset all his 
operations? ” 

John Hardy was honest, as well as clever, but in 
this it would seem as if he were more honest than 
bright. 

What if Templeton was Delaney T 

Did that necessarily establish him as Harry Russell ? 

Old Miller thought further ahead than Hardy in 
this matter, although it will be remembered that, as 
yet, Hardy had never heard anything about an 
identification by means of the loss of a toe. 

“ Now, Hardy,” began Mr. Russell, after they had 
talked over the hospital for the hundredth time, 
“Miller will be here this evening, and he expects me 
to give him my conclusion about Templeton. I will 
introduce you as my friend from Liverpool, Mr. George 
Wilson, button-maker, and as Miller goes on, you 
make up your mind. All you have to do is to indicate 
your ideas, and I’ll follow them out to the letter. Mind 


BADLY BEATEN. 


238 

you. I want to do the correct thing by every one. 
If I have wronged Templeton, I’ll make amends — but 
I haven’t.” 

N ot long after this, Miller was announced. Mr. Rus- 
sell introduced Hardy as an intimate friend from 
Liverpool, who being familiar with the whole story 
would make one of the council, on the occasion. 

The two detectives looked at each other well. • 

Hardy was rather pleased with Miller’s offhand way, 
and Miller saw swiftly a handsome-featured, well-built, 
honest-appearing youth, who looked straight out of 
his eyes, evidently afraid of nothing. 

“Mr. Russell has been telling me of your success, 
Mr. Miller,” said Hardy, “ in tracing up little Bob De- 
laney, and of the most extraordinary coincidence 
that he should prove, probably, to be Mr. Templeton, 
a former fellow-passenger of his. Would you mind 
giving me, in detail, the plan you pursued ? It must 
be very interesting, and I am sure it is most creditable 
to your ingenuity and skill as an officer.” 

Miller longed for his pipe. 

It was difficult for him to think clearly without a 
pipe, and his lies were halting unless his head was 
enveloped in smoke. 

But he was an experienced sinner. 

A shrewd old fellow, whose game was honesty. 

Looking from Hardy to the ladies, and then at Mr. 
Russell, Miller said : “ Oh, I don’t know about the in- 


BADLY BEATEN. 


239 

genuity, Mr. Wilson. It didn’t require such an awful 
amount of headwork to find out that old Delaney 
had moved away. Then by tracking his old compan- 
ions, and mine, I heard he was sent back to New York. 
Good luck helped me to the fact that the boy he had 
with him was shipped on an eastward-bound vessel, 
and the hospital record told the rest. It is a simple 
matter of fact, sir. We can’t prove it by seeing the 
boy grow, but we can do what is just as good. We 
trace him by means of official documents to the date 
of his adoption, and from that moment the high 
school, college, and the navy stand as unimpeach- 
able witnesses.” 

1 Have you kept any memorandum of dates ? ” ask- 
ed Hardy. 

“ Only in my head,” replied Miller. 

“Then this boy’s name was — ■” 

“ Mr. Robert Delaney is below, sir, and asks if you 
are engaged,” said a servant at the door. 

“Mr. Robert Delaney?” said Hardy, springing to 
his feet ; “ surely not Templeton ? ” 

Miller felt as if the floor was sinking from under his 
feet. 

And Mr. Russell for the first time thought of the 
identity of the names of his young clerical friend, 
and the little Bob Delaney of his search. 

For a moment there was danger of a scene, but 
Hardy recovered himself almost immediately, as did 


240 


BADLY BEATEN. 


Miller! Mr. Russell turning to his wife said: “I think 
you had better see Mr. Delaney in the parlor below, 
mother. Tell him we are very busy. He won’t stay 
long, for he has a service, I am quite sur$, at half-past 
seven.”- 

“Excuse me, Mr. Russell,” said Hardy; “why not 
ask Mr. Delaney here ? If his name is Robert De- 
laney perhaps he can tell us something about Bob 
Delaney — and at all events I wish you would ask him 
up.” 

Miller said nothing, but he thought a great deal. 

As yet he had no suspicion of Hardy’s real business. 

But he was fast growing to dislike him and to de- 
sire to avoid him. 

Mr. Russell directed the waiter to show Mr. Dela- 
ney to their parlor, and presently the young clergyman 
appeared, bright-faced and cordial in his bearing. 

He was glad to see the Russells .and showed it. 

He was surprised, however, to see Miller, and he 
showed that. 

Mr. Russell it will be remembered had spoken of 
Hardy to Mr. Delaney and had promised himself 
much pleasure in bringing the young men together. 
But it was obviously impossible for him to present 
Hardy by his own name to Mr. Delaney while Miller 
was in the room ; so he .simply introduced the two. 
Hardy responding to, the name of Wilson. 

All they needed to complete the party was Tem- 


BADLY BEATEN. 


241 


pleton — but he was on his way to New York as fast 
as steam and wheels could take him. 

While Mr. Russell was for a few moments engaged 
in welcoming Mr. Delaney, and with the ladies formed 
a temporary group in the center of the room, Miller 
occupied himself in preparing for a retreat ; and Hardy 
from his vantage ground made an estimate of his Chi- 
cago comrade. 

Miller saw the dangerous ground on which he stood 
and determined to hold it only so long as it was wise 
to do so ; resolving if any exposure should suddenly 
be made, to affect as great surprise as any, and to be 
as profoundly indignant as the best of them. 

Hardy was troubled. 

He felt distrust of Miller without knowing why, and 
believing Templeton to be a schemer and an adven- 
turer, was resolved to trust him in nothing that was 
not proved to a mathematical certainty. 

When they were all seated Mr. Russell said : “ Do 
you know, Mr. Delaney, we were just talking about 
‘ “ Bob Delaney ’ when the servant announced your 
name.” 

The clergyman looked astonished at what appeared 
a rather pronounced and unaccustomed liberty with 
his name, and smilingly replied : “ Well, sir, I hope 
Bob Delaney was treated with all due respect. You 
mustn’t forget that I am in my new house now, with 

at least a full cubit added to my stature.” 

11 


242 


BADLY BEATEN. 


This pleasantry did not meet with the expected rec- 
ognition, and Mr. Delaney became so evidently con- 
fused, that Hardy, with his characteristic disregard of 
conventionalisms said : “ Excuse me, Mr. Delaney, if 
at the risk of seeming over-curious, I ask you a ques- 
tion or two, bearing directly on the happiness of Mr. 
Russell.” 

Mr. Delaney bowed. 

Miller sat as quiet as a cat. 

“Your name is Robert Delaney. Has it always 
been so ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied the clergyman. 

“ Are you a native of Chicago ? ” 

“ That I cannot answer, but I have lived here since 
I was a boy. My history is well known to my fellow- 
citizens.” 

“ Is there any uncertainty or mystery about your 
birth or early childhood ? ” 

“ None, that I am aware of.” 

“Is your father living ? ” 

“No. He died here many years since. He was a 
builder and fell — ” 

“ A what 1 ” shouted Hardy ; “ a builder l ” “ Mr. 

Russell, do you hear that? A builder? And his 
name, what was that ? ” 

“James Delaney,” answered the clergyman, half 
bewildered and wholly surprised. 

“Thank God ! thank God ! ” said Hardy. “Why, 


BADLY BEATEN. 


243 

Mr. Miller, your man Templeton is a liar, and a fraud 
and a scoundrel, sir. I know it. I can prove it. I 
have felt it in my bones from the first. Now I know 
it.” 

“ And you,” said Miller, utterly disconcerted ; “ for 
Heaven’s sake who, and what ar q you? ” 

“ I,” rejoined Hardy ; “ I am John Hardy of the 
New York office, at your service, Mr. Miller, and I 
only hope I shall find in you as square a man as I try 
to be.” 

Words fail in the attempt to picture the overwhelm- 
ing gratification of Mr. Russell, the sympathizing and 
admiring glances of Mrs. Russell and Maud, the help- 
less curiosity of Mr. Delaney, and the consternation 
of Miller. 

“I hope,” stammered out Miller, “you don’t for a 
moment imagine that /” — 

“ Oh, I don't imagine anything,” interrupted 
Hardy ; “ imagination is very well in its way, but 
what we want is facts. I know this fellow Tem- 
pleton, root and branch. He tried to bribe me in 
New York, and I expected to cross his trail here. I 
must say he played a pretty bold game, and if he de- 
ceived you, he is a clever fellow indeed. But how is 
it that you never heard of Mr. Delaney? ” 

“ Well, that is good,” said Mr. Delaney, who was 
still in the dark. “ Mr. Miller has known me, and of 
me, these twenty years, and his home is one of my 


244 


BADLY BEATEN. 


resorts. And by the way, Mr. Miller, this coincidence 
of names is strange, is it not ? I was telling the ladies 
the other evening, that your pretty Mary is betrothed 
to a gentleman by the name of Russell, Harry Russell 
is it not ? And here I am ” — 

Hardy could keep quiet no longer. Impetuously 
he broke in on the unfinished sentence with “ Mr. 
Miller, you are an older man than I, and possibly a 
better officer, but my position in this matter ranks 
yours. You may consider yourself relieved until I 
have seen your Chief. I will call on him to-morrow, 
and I promise you then a full investigation of this 
most extraordinary case. If the result is satisfactory, 
I will apologize to you for my suspicion ; as it is now, 
I cannot advise Mr. Russell to treat you with further 
confidence.” 

Miller was a man of the world, hardened, callous, 
and indifferent to opinion, but the fiery indignation 
of the young officer, cut him to the quick. 

But he showed no feeling whatever. Taking his 
hat, he said : “ I will see you, Mr. Wilson, or Hardy, 
or whatever your name may be, at the office to-mor- 
fow; and if you think you’ve seen and heard the last 
of ‘ One-eyed Charley,’ you mistake your man.” 

As Miller went out Hardy stepped up to him and 
quietly said: “Take my advice, and make a clean 
breast of it. I know Templeton, and I know you. 
Good night.” 


BADLY BEATEN. 


245 

After Miller’s departure, explanations were made, 
and Mr. Delaney repeated the story of his boyhood, 
his father’s habits and terrible death, and his general 
life as known to the reader. 

The early hours of the following day, found the three 
men still in consultation, and when they separated it 
was understood : 

That Mr. Delaney was little “ Bob” grown up ; 

That he was undeniably the son of James Delaney, 

m 

the builder ; 

That therefore little Bob and Harry Russell, were 
not identical ; 

That Mr. Delaney’s love for Martha Miller should 
screen the lady’s father from exposure and disgrace, on 
condition that he laid bare Templeton’s programme ; 
for although there was no proof as yet, that Miller 
had ever seen Templeton, it was evident that 
the two were working together to establish the 
Lieutenant as little Bob, and doubtless to continue 
the deception down to the very door of the Russell 
home. 

Mr. Delaney left Mr. Russell and Hardy together, 
the one down-hearted because his time was wasted, 
and nothing gained ; the latter weary and fatigued, but 
thankful that he had been the means of breaking 
up what he believed to be an atrocious conspiracy ; 
and happy too in the belief that he was not indifferent 
to Maud, or her parents. 


246 


BADLY BEATEN. 


It would be difficult to say, what Mr. Russell dream- 
ed of that night. 

j But Hardy dreamed of fairy land, with Maud as 
queen. 






CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A SOFT ANSWER TURNS AWAY WRATH. 

ARLY on the following morning, Monday, 
Maud, who was a perfect kitten with her 
mother, drew a small footstool near Mrs. 
Russell’s chair in their parlor, and resting her folded 
hands upon that good lady’s knee, looked up in her 
face, and said : “ Mamma, papa is very angry with 
Miller, isn’t he ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, I think he is ; why not ? ” 

“ And is he angry at Templeton, too ? ” 

“ That depends. Mr. Hardy intimates that he has 
reason to believe Templeton to be, not only an un- 
principled person, but a plotter against your father of 
the meanest description. After retiring last night 
father was very nervous. He could not sleep, arid 
seeing how excited he was, I canvassed the whole 
affair with him. He trusts, as I do, everything to 
Hardy, and will undoubtedly be guided entirely by 
him. It now looks as if we should all go back to New 
York immediately. This time is all lost, and instead 



A SOFT ANSWER. 


248 

of gaining any good, we seem to have had simply an- 
noyance and distress.” 

“ You surely do not regret meeting Mr. Delaney,” 
said Maud, “ and one would think Hardy was one of 
us, I am sure. I declare he is like an own brother to 
me, — only more respectful. But do you think Mr. 
Hardy will do anything dreadful to Templeton ? ” 

il You silly girl,” replied Mrs. Russell ; “ you surely 
cannot have a particle of feeling for a man, who — ” 

Maud stood straight up. 

“ Yes, mamma, I have a feeling. I have just this 
feeling, that I should hate above all things to have 
William Templeton imagine for one single moment 
that anything he might do, could cause my father one 
second’s annoyance. I would have him treated with 
absolute contempt.” 

Mrs. Russell looked long and lovingly, at her excited 
daughter, and then taking her hand, said : “ My dar- 
ling, I think we can safely leave all this dreadful busi- 
ness to your father and his adviser ; but I promise 
you, dear, that before any harsh proceedings are in- 
augurated, you shall know of them, and nothing 
shall be done which can in the remotest degree 
affect you or put it in Templeton’s power to think 
his treatment of you, is the slightest motive in his dig- 
grace.” 

Mr. Russell and John Hardy had been for some 
time in the reading-room, where Hardy had gone for 


A SOFT ANSWER. 


249 


the purpose of communicating with his headquarters 
in New York. 

As they entered, Mr. Russell noticed Maud’s flush- 
ed face, and with some anxiety, asked if she were not 
feeling well. 

The young girl kissed away her father’s fear, and 
extending her hand to Hardy, said: “Oh, Mr. Hardy, 
what an angel you are ! A perfect angel of deliver- 
ance. How stupid we all are. Papa is just as bad 
as the rest of us. Why, do you know we met Mr. 
Delaney at a party, and he talked, and walked with 
me along time. We have been to his church, and his 
card with that very name printed on it, has been in 
my hands half a dozen times at least. And yet till 
you fired it out at us, like a cannon ball, not one of 
us even dreamed that there was the very man we 
wanted.” 

“’And now we find he is the very man we don’t 
want,” laughed Hardy. 

“ But a very fine fellow, for all that,” said Mr. Russell. 

“ Yes, indeed he is,” said Maud ; “ and a lovely 
preacher. You ought to hear him. He never writes 
a sermon. All he has is on a little bit of paper. But 
he knows what to say, and how to say it.” 

“ I was a little staggered, wasn’t you, Mr. Russell,” 
asked Hardy, “ when he told us he was engaged to 
one of old Miller’s daughters, and thought he should 
be married in a short time ? ” 


250 


A SOFT ANSWER. 


“ Yes, I was,” replied Mr. Russell ; “ and it bothers 
me now.” 

“ Why, father ? ” said his wife. 

“ Why, if Miller has been playing us false — as he 
has — he deserves to be broken, and punished. I 
trusted him. I turned myself inside out before him. 
I made him welcome. I paid him well, and if he 
cheated me — and he has — he has been not only wick- 
ed, but mean. Of course he should be exposed. Ex- 
posure means disgrace and ruin.” 

“ Well,” said Hardy. 

“ Well, his daughters are good girls, I am told. 
You know what Delaney says of them. And you 
know what we all think of Delaney. Whatever hurts 
Miller, hurts his children. And whatever hurts them 
hurts Delaney. And what hurts Delaney, hurts me.” 

“ Oh father, dear, dear father. Who wouldn’t be 
fond of such a father,” said Maud, and the impulsive 
girl threw her arms about him, and kissed him again 
and again. 

Hardy looked on with interest. Everything about 
Maud Russell charmed him. The affection she mani- 
fested for her parents was simple and genuine. Her 
kindliness was always apparent. Her thoughtfulness 
of others’ comfort and happiness and ease never slept. 

Happy to be of service to her, he said : “ I think, 
Miss Russell, it will be easy to manage Miller, so that 
while his daughters shall be spared all mortification, 


A SOFT ANSWER. 


251 


he can be useful to your father. I gave him an inti- 
mation last night, on which I think he will act. If he 
thought fighting would bring him and his man Tem- 
( pleton safely through he would fight ; but he must see, 
and if he doesn’t he will before we get through with 
him, that he has lost the game, and granting that, he 
will be very apt to make terms as best as he can. I 
propose to say to him that if he will disclose the en- 
tire scheme, of which he is part, for his daughters’ 
sake, Mr. Russell will forgive his offense.” 

“ But how about Templeton ? ” asked Mrs. Russell. 

“ Well, Templeton has no daughter that I know of, 
and he’s not only bad, but a sneak,” said Hardy. 

“ But what is gained by following these wretches ?” 
said Maud. 

“Why, daughter,” said Mr. Russell, “are we still 
tender on the Lieutenant ; mustn’t we punish any- 
body ? ” 

Mrs. Russell caught her husband’s eye, and with a 
glance, delivered a protest more eloquent than words 
could express, and like a model man he changed his 
tactics at once. 

“ Hardy,” said he, “ we will send for Miller and 
compromise on your terms. To-night we will go to 
Parson Delaney’s house-warming, and see his pretty 
bride, that is to be, and to-morrow start for New York. 
‘ Little Bob ’ we have found. ‘ Little Harry ’ is still 
to be found. We drop old Miller, push Templeton 


252 


A SOFT ANSWER. 


from our thoughts, and make one final effort for my 
boy. If we find him you shall go home with us, to see 
the royal welcome he will have. And if we fail, why 
then you must go home with us, to rest yourself a 
while and to comfort me.” 

Mrs. Russell and Maud went out to make some 
purchases, their donations to the young pastor ; 
Hardy wrote and sent a note to Miller, requesting his 
presence at the hotel ; and M. Russell busied himself 
with his correspondence. 

As Hardy, having dispatched his message, turned 
to go to his own room to rest, Mr. Russell rose, and 
taking him by the hand said : “ Hardy, my boy, 

don’t think I am unmindful of your solicitude and 
helpfulness. I am not a talker. I feel your kindness, 
and am grateful for it. Be assured, young man, I 
shall not forget it.” 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE SURPRISERS SURPRISED. 

ONDAY evening was memorable in the life 
of the Rev. Robert Delaney. 

His parishioners had arranged a “ surprise 
donation party ” for him, but, as is always the case, 
the fact leaked out, and being something of a wag, 
the young parson thought he would meet his people 
on their own ground, and beat them at their own 
game. 

The only invitations Mr. Delaney issued were to 
the Russell family, and John Hardy, a clerical friend, 
and Charles Miller, the detective. 

Each of these he asked, begging them on no ac- 
count to be later than nine o’clock, and if possible to 
reach the house half an hour earlier. 

At eight o’clock the good folks began to arrive, 
bearing gifts of every sort and name, from the pon- 
derous barrel of flour in an express wagon, to the deli- 
cate Parian vase in the fair hands of the giver. Eata- 
bles sufficient to “keep” a moderate-sized family an 





THE SURPRISED PARTY. 


254 

entire season were left at the basement door. Articles 
of chamber utility and of parlor adornment were 
handed in in marvellous abundance, while the study 
and the bookcase were liberally remembered. 

Mr. Russell and his party arrived early, and were 
especially pleased at* the unmistakable earnestness 
and cordiality of the greetings between pastor and 
people. “ I tell you, mother,” said Mr. Russell, 
“that’s the kind of a minister for me. He knows 
every one of these people, and they love him like a 
brother. No question about it, that young man will 
do a power of good here. I wonder if he wouldn’t 
like to spend a few years with us.” 

The rooms were full, and Hardy was looking, with 
Maud, at a beautiful edition of De Quincey, when Mr. 
Delaney approached them, and said : “ M^r. Hardy, I 
understand you had a long and satisfactory talk with 
Mr. Miller this afternoon.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Hardy; “and the old rascal 
owned up like a brick. Mind you, I don’t mean any- 
thing disrespectful to you in what I say about Miller. 
Miller isn’t his daughter by a long way. Yes, Miller 
gave me some very important assistance, and I must 
, say I like the way he acted about Templeton. He 
owned up that he and Templeton put up this Bob 
; Delaney job, and said if it hadn’t been for my notic- 
ing the similarity of the name with yours, he would 
have convinced not only Mr. Russell, but the ladies 


THE SURPRISE PARTY. 


255 

and perhaps myself, that Templeton really was little 
Bob. Beyond that confession he insisted it was not 
fair to expect him to go. I am convinced that in 
some way he expected to connect little Bob with the 
lost Harry ; but how I could not divine. For the 
sake of Martha Miller, indeed I may say for your 
sake, sir, Miller is as free to-day as you are. We 
will do him no harm. And not only that, but I vol- 
unteered the promise that if he would write such a 
letter to Templeton as would scare the scoundrel 
from New York, I would never mention to the chief 
of police here our dissatisfaction or Miller's infidelity.” 

“ I am very thankful to you, I am sure,” said Mr. 
Delaney. “ I have prepared a little surprise for Mil- 
ler and for all my guests to-night, which I hope will 
not be displeasing to you, to both of you, and if you 
will kindly join Mr. and Mrs. Russell in the front par- 
lor, you will have a better opportunity of understand- 
ing me.” 

Of course they went, Maud saying, as they passed 
through the crowd of friends : “ I think Mr. Delaney 
is a very nice person, don't you ? I am almost sorry 
he is not our Harry, after all.” 

Mrs. Russell had asked Mr. Delaney to present her 
to Martha Miller, but he replied that neither she nor 
her sister had arrived. Later in the evening Mrs. 
Russell reminded her host of her request, and he made 
the same reply. 


256 THE surprise party. 

When Hardy and Maud joined Mr. and Mrs. Rus- 
sell, the latter said to Hardy : “ Have you seen either 
of Miller’s daughters, Mr. Hardy ? I want very much 
to meet them, and especially Miss Martha. She is 
Mr. Delaney’s betrothed, you know, and he seems 
very proud of her.” 

“ Well, yes, I should say I do know it,” said Hardy, 
“ considering it has altered all my plans, saved Miller, 
and kept Templeton out of jail. I am free to con- 
fess I would like to see what kind of a daughter such 
a father can have.” 

Mr. Russell kept suspiciously quiet. He had had 
a long conversation with Mr. Delaney quite early in 
the evening, and had been very thoughtful ever since ; 
so much so that both Maud and her mother rallied 
him on his absentmindedness. 

Precisely at nine o’clock the door opening into the 
hall near the front door swung on its hinges, and four 
beautiful girls, of whom Mary Miller was one, entered, 
separating two by two, as they semi-circled at the 
end of the room, while Martha Miller, leaning on 
the arm of Robert Delaney took her place in the 
centre. 

So complete was the surprise of everybody in the 
room, that no one noticed the entrance of the broth- 
er minister, nor of old Miller, who quietly took a po- 
sition near the door. 

Mr. Russell enj-oyed the scene immensely. To 


THE SURPRISE PAR TV. 


257 

him alone the secret had been confided, and only to 
him on Miller’s account. 

Well, a bride is a bride, even if she weds a clergy- 
man. 

And a wedding is a wedding, be it in a garret or 
castle. 

It was soon over. 

But the night was far spent ere the congratulations 
were over, and the house was emptied of all but the 
bride and groom, their sister Mary, and old Miller. 

The old man was rather out of his element, but as 
Mary and he rose to bid Delaney and his wife good- 
night, Miller swung his hat in his hand, and said : 
“ Robert, from this hour you shall have no cause for 
uneasiness about me or mine. I shall resign my po- 
sition to-morrow. Mary tells me she must have a 
change of scene. So must I. These girls are all I 
cared for in life. To them I now add you. God 
bless you. In a little while, a few days at most, Mary 
and I go west for a tramp. I don’t know but we’ll 
take in California and the Sandwich Islands — any- 
where and anything to please her and change myself. 
So don’t worry, Martha ; you’ve got a good husband. 
Good-night, and God bless you.” 

The girls hung about their father’s neck and kissed 
him, while Robert Delaney grasped his hand, and 
bade him always be sure of a hearty welcome in the 
home of his son and daughter. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. 


Russells had returned to New York 
some two weeks, when John Hardy, who 
had left them at Chicago, for a few days’ visit 
in Milwaukee, rejoined them. 

“Well, Hardy,” said Mr. Russell, after a few mo- 
ments’ natural inquiry, “ what of the Millers, and how 
is my friend Robert ? ” 

“ I called on Mr. Delaney the day I left,” replied 
Hardy, “ and told him what you said about his going 
over . to your place for a month, and he promised to 
lay the matter before his people. If they consent, he 
will go ; his church is out of debt, and he received 
your generous offer to pay all expenses in precisely 
the spirit you made it. He is a splendid fellow I 
think, and that wife of his is just as nice as she can 
be.” 


“And how about Mary Miller,” said Mrs. Russell. 
“Well, she’s in trouble,” said Hardy. “I don’t 
understand exactly what it is. I only know that she is 



WALKING DO WN BROAD WA Y. 


2 59 

now living with the Delaneys, and old Miller is fairly 
wild about something, of which he won’t speak. He 
wrote to Templeton the day after the wedding, gave 
him all the points, and advised him to leave the 
country until your departure rendered it safe to 
return. Miller had a terrible time with Mary, and 
Delaney tells me the poor girl was frantic with grief, 
when her father told her of her lover’s perfidy. I 
imagine he only told her part of it at that time. 
Templeton has gone to South America, but before 
he went, he wrote Mary a pretty rough kind of a 
letter: not ugly, as men look at such things, but 
killing to a woman. She drooped and faded, and was 
very sick, and while she was hanging between life and 
death, she told Mrs. Delaney something or other that 
stirred old Miller up fearfully, and when I got back to 
Chicago, the old man came to me with fire in his 
eye and said he would come on with me, as he had 
business with Templeton. I was rather surprised at 
that and said, ‘Why, he’s gone to South America ;’ to 
which he replied, ‘ He said he was going, but I would 
not believe the scoundrel under oath. It’s lucky for 
him if he has gone.’ So I infer that something pretty 
bad has happened.” 

“ Oh, I am so sorry,” said Maud. 

“ Yes, indeed,” echoed her mother. 

“ Well, go on, go on,” said Mr. Russell ; “ where 
is Miller now ? ” 


26 o 


WALKING DOWN BROAD WA Y. 


“I sent him to French’s Hotel, down by the City 
Hall,” said Hardy. “ He wanted to *be at some cen- 
tral point, and handy to the wharves. I don’t know 
what to do with him. I don’t like him, but it doesn’t 
seem exactly fair to snub him. And then if I could 
do anything for his daughter, I should be very glad.” 

“ Yes, and we, too,” said Mrs. Russell. “ I suppose 
you wouldn’t care to see him, would you, father?” 

“ No. That is, unless Hardy thought I could be 
of service to the girl. I can’t say I regard a man 
who conspired against my heart and property, with 
any special liking. Hardy, you do what’s best, and 
I’ll back you. Now, my boy, I have written to my 
people, that I shall leave the States six weeks from 
to-day. Until then, we must strain every nerve for 
the accomplishment of our purpose. And then — 
well, if then there is no clue and no hope, I shall at 
all events be relieved of a burden I have carried these 
long, long years. I have done my duty. Would 
that I had succeeded. And I have a little project 
in my head about you, of which we will speak an- 
other time. By the way, Hardy, don’t you think it 
would be well for me to call on the Mayor, and thank 
him for his courtsey and letters ? I haven’t seen 
him since the first week of my arrival.” 

“Just as you please about that,” said Hardy; 
“he’s a nice old gentleman, very kind-hearted and 
one of the regular old school.” 


WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. 2 6 i 

“ I suppose it will be necessary to send word sev- 
eral days in advance.” 

“Oh, no,” said Hardy; “we’ll jump on a car any 
day and go right in. His office hours are supposed 
to be from ten to three. There’s no trouble about 
seeing him yourself.” 

“ Why can’t we go somewhere this evening, papa,” 
asked Maud. 

“ Where do you want to go, dear? ” 

“ Oh, anywhere. What is going on, Mr. Hardy ? ” 

Hardy looked at the paper, and after scanning its 
amusement columns, said : “ I see they are playing 
‘Led Astray’ at the Union Square Theatre, right a 
the foot of the square here. How would you like 
that ? ” 

“Well, I’m sure we’ve been led astray,” said Mrs. 
Russell, “ suppose we go and see others in the same 
predicament.” 

“Will you get seats, Hardy?” said Mr. Russell. 

“Tickets for four, Mr. Hardy,” said Maud. 

Hardy looked quickly at Mr. Russell, who simply 
smiled and said : “You did not suppose he would get 
a dozen, did you, dear ? ” 

“ Why, no ; but you know what I mean, papa,” she 
answered. 

Mr. Russell thought he did know, but h.e held his 
own counsel and said nothing. 

Arranging to join the party at dinner, Hardy, who 


262 WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. 

had become one of the family in the estimation of all,- 
bade them good-morning, and intimating to Mr. Rus- 
sell to join him, left the room. 

Mr. Russell followed, and together they walked 
down to the theatre. There were no seats, and they 
were compelled to take a box or nothing. 

“ Of all places in these New York theatres,” said 
Mr. Russell, “the boxes are most uncomfortable. 
Two people can see about two-thirds of the stage; and 
the others are lucky, if they see a quarter.” 

“Well; I suppose people who sit in boxes, as a 
rule, care more for the audience than the actors,” sug- 
gested Hardy. 

“What an idea,” said Mr. Russell; “what do you 
suppose I care about the audience ? ” 

“ The ladies might, if you didn’t.” 

“ Nonsense. If I thought my wife or Maud went 
to the theatre to look at the people, I’d ” 

“You’d let them do just what they wanted,” 
laughed Hardy. 

“Yes, I dare say I would,” said Mr. Russell. 

“ Where are you going now ? ” 

“I was going down to the Central Office,” said 
Hardy ; “ but if you would like to call on the Mayor 
now, I’ll take you there.” 

“-All right,” said Mr. Russell ;■“ but why not go 
down Broadway instead of by the cars. I would very- 
much like to walk down part way at least.” 


WALKING DOWN BROAD WA V. 2 63 

Taking the west side of New York’s greatest high- 
way, the two friends, arm in arm, proceeded down, 
meeting scores of thousands of busy, bustling people, 
rich and poor, wise and foolish, like the rest of the 
world. 

Hardy knew all the notables, and as they passed 
pointed them out to his companion. 

“ Here comes one -of our Congressmen,” said he , 
“he’s a gambler now, and used to be a prize-fighter, 
but he’s one of our political powers to-day.” 

“You surely do not mean that a man can be in 
Congress and be a gambler at the same time,” said 
Mr. Russell. 

“ Why, certainly,” replied Hardy ; “ why not ? You 
see our city politics are curiously managed. We 
have two great parties, the Republican and the 
Democratic. All the foreigners are ‘ taken ’ with the 
name of the latter, and make haste to join it. Some 
of them are so delighted, that they not only join the 
party, but vote at the polls before they’ve been 
twelve months in the country.” 

• “ Bless my soul,” said Mr. Russell. “ But they 

rarely hold office I imagine, do they ? ” 

“ Your imagination does you discredit,” said Har- 
dy ; “ they hold it all the time. Look at the police- 
men we meet between this and the City Hall. Here 
come three now. What are they ? ” 

“ Evidently Irishmen,” said Mr. Russell. 


264 WALKING DOWN BROAD WA Y. 

“ Precisely. All Irish. We have hosts of Irishmen 
on the force.” 

“ Do they make good officers?” 

“That depends. During the war riots, the police 
acted nobly. It was feared that their sympathies for 
the poor devils who were dragged off to the war, would 
affect them in the performance of their duty. But 
not at all. They obeyed orders like soldiers. The 
city was saved by their heroism.” 

“ But your aldermen and so on, of course, as a rule, 
they are natives.” 

“ Not at all. As a rule they are adopted citizens. 
Aldermen as a general thing are not remarkable for 
wit or honesty. Their stupidity is proverbial. Our 
sheriff is an Irishman. The county clerk is a Ger- 
man. Three of the coroners are German, and in all 
our local boards — such as school trustees, excise 
commissioners, ward officers and so on — the foreign 
element is largely represented.” 

“How do you account for that?” said Mr. Russell. 
“ It seems very strange to me.” 

“Oh, easily,” answered Hardy; “the party in 
power has all the ; patronage,’ as it is called. Pa- 
tronage here means public employment. The police, 
the fire department, the parks, the public works, 
the court officers, all are cursed by the same com- 
plaint. The party in power wants all the places to 
pay for services rendered at the polls. Thousands of 


WALKING D 0 WN BR OAD WAY. 265 

laborers are paid two dollars a day on the boulevards 
for instance, and every man of them has his work be- 
cause some politician asked it. Why, even the po- 
licemen don’t know from day to day how long they 
are secure in their places.” 

“But doesn’t the Mayor attend to — ” 

“ The Mayor ! ” said Hardy ; “ the Mayor has just 
about as much to do with it as you have. He can’t 
make nor break a single employe of the entire city 
government ; not one of them, outside his individual 
office, is at his disposal.” 

“But surely he controls the finances, and the man 
who does that is in the seat of power ? ” 

“ Just so. If he controlled the finances. But he 
controls nothing. Our financial chief is well called 
the comptroller. When he is notified that bills are to 
be paid or money expended, he makes out a warrant 
and signs it. The Mayor countersigns it as a matter 
of form. He knows nothing about it. If he refuses 
to sign it, the courts will compel him. I tell you the 
Mayor is a perfect cipher. All he can do is to re- 
ceive people, review processions, respond to toasts, 
and be a respectable dummy figure-head. Do you see 
that man, the tall one, on the corner? That’s Lester 
Wallack.” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“ Well, he owns the theatre I showed you on the 

corner of 13th street. He is considered our best 
12 


266 WALKING DOWN BROAD WA Y. 

American comedian, and is a great favorite in so- 
ciety, as well as on the stage.’ 5 

“ He looks a manly fellow,” said Mr. Russell ; “ is 
he a New Yorker ? ” 

“ Oh, no. He’s an Englishman, son of the great 
Wallack, and a very fine man.” 

“What a solid, respectable-looking edifice that is ! 
What is it ? ” asked Mr. Russell. 

“That’s Stewart’s retail store. He has another 
about as large further down town.” 

“ Rich man, I suppose ? ” 

“Well I should say so. He is reported as having 
about $75,000,000.” 

“ Bless my soul. Did he make or inherit it ? ” 

“ Made every dollar of it.” 

“Born here ? ” 

“ No. He’s Irish, or Scotch-Irish I believe.” 

“ It seems to me everything and everybody has a 
touch of Irish or English in this town, Hardy.” 

“It does look so, I declare. Let’s see ; they are 
playing either French, English or Irish pieces at 
all the theatres. Nearly all our leading actors are 
foreign. A majority of our politicians came from 
County Cork, and nearly every beggar one meets 
has a brogue on his tongue* or has left his h’ s at 
’ome.” 

“ Those are fine photographs, Hardy. Let me take 
the number of this place. Maud wa 3 saying last 


WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. 267 

night she must have some pictures taken. Suppose 
we step in a moment.” 

They looked at the. collection in which Hardy point- 
ed out Edwin Booth, President Grant, Governor Dix, 
Mayor Havemeyer, Mrs. Scott Siddons, Miss Rose 
Eytinge, Rev. H. W. Beecher, Miss Charlotte Cush- 
man, P. T. Barnum, General Sherman, James Fisk, Jr., 
and other well known people, after which Mr. Rus- 
sel engaged an hour for Mrs. Russell and daughter 
the following day. 

As they regained the street Hardy noticed the time 
and said he feared it would be too late to find the 
Mayor at his office. 

Mr. Russell was about replying when his eye caught 
the figure of One-eyed Charley Miller. 

Miller was walking rapidly on the opposite side of 
the street. 

His hat was pulled well down over his forehead, but 
his figure and gait were unmistakable. 

Hardy, without a word to Mr. Russell, ran after 
Miller, and surprised him before he had time to think 
or speak. 

“ Hallo, old man, where are you going in such a 
hurry ? ” said Hardy. 

Miller stopped short. 

His hair was disordered, his eye was bloodshot, his 
face unshaven, his linen soiled, his clothing untidy. 

He was drunk. 


268 WALKING DOWN BROADWAY. 

“Hardy,” said he ; “damn yon, Hardy, old fel ; I 
like you. Say, Hardy, I want to get my flippers on that 
Templeton. Hardy, I’m drunk ; and when I’m drunk 
I know it. I don’t stagger outside, and I don’t stag- 
ger inside. Where’s Russell, Hardy ? I like Russell. 
Let’s get a drink.” 

Mr. Russell crossed the street and was approach- 
ing the two, but Hardy motioned him away and he 
retired to a doorway, where he could see what oc- 
curred. 

Hardy was very anxious to get from Miller the 
whole of Templeton’s plan, and this he believed to be 
a good time to do so. He hailed a coupe and pulling 
Miller in, told the man to drive to police headquarters, 
and jumped in himself. And so, for a second time, 
Mr. Russell was unceremoniously left to find his way 
home alone. 




CHAPTER XXXVII. 

JOHN AND MAUD. 

T the dinner table, Mr. Russell complained 
of headache, and told his wife he would 
have to be excused from going with her to 
the theatre, and that she and Maud must depend on 
Hardy for an escort. 

While they were discussing the matter, Hardy came 
in, and Mrs. Russell said : “ Mr. Hardy, we old folks 
will stay at home together to-night. You take Maud 
to the theatre ; she is very anxious to go, and I am 
very glad I have so trusty a friend to send her with.” 

“ I shall be very glad to escort Miss Maud, I am 
sure,” said Hardy, “but I think you make a mistake 
in not going.” 

“ Oh, I have a bad headache, Hardy,” said Mr. 
Russell, “ and I’m not going. So you just take good 
care of Maud, and be sure to let me see you early in 
the morning. Where did you leave your friend ? ” 

“ Oh, he’s all right,” replied Hardy ; “ I left him fast 
asleep at headquarters in the matron’s apartments. 




2 70 JOHN AND MA UD. 

He will be brought to my room in the morning ; and, 
by the way, suppose you look in about noon. You 
know the way, don’t you ?” 

“ All right, I will,” said Mr. Russell, as they rose 
from the table, and Maud retired to dress. 

Presently returning, the pride and pet of the happy 
pair, Maud kissed her father and mother good-by, 
and gay as a lark, started off with the happiest and 
proudest of them all — John Hardy, her lover yet un- 
announced. 

The beautiful theatre was crowded, every seat be- 
ing taken, and the audience peculiarly bright and gay. 
In the orchestra stalls sat many people of repute, 
known personally or by sight to Hardy, and the time 
passed quickly as they waited for the rising of the 
curtain. 

The play was full of suggestive points, all of which 
Hardy felt ; some of which made Maud wonder. 

At the close of the second act, Maud was in ecsta- 
sies. She had not often attended theatrical represen- 
tations, and the excitement told upon her. She was 
bewilderingly beautiful, and many a glass was turned 
full upon her flushed and innocent face, as uncon- 
scious of the attention she looked out upon the 
people. 

“Your father asked me to engage rooms on the 
steamer to-day,” said Hardy. 

“ I know it,” said Maud ; “ I am very sorry. A 


JOHN AND MAUD. 


271 


month will give us very little time here. I am just 
beginning to know New York, and I wanted to see 
Niagara before we went home. You don’t know how 
pleasant it is, to have you with us, Mr. Hardy. 
Mamma said to-day, she should miss you awfully 
when we part.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“Oh, you know I shall. I am sure you have been 
better to me than any brother. From the dreadful 
hour when you saved me from injury, if not from death, 
you have been even more than a brother could be.” 

“ I wish I might. That is, I wish it were possible 
for me to be where I might always be of service to you, 
Miss Maud. The kindness and sympathy shown me 
by your father touch me very nearly, I assure you, 
and when he goes, I shall feel as if the world were 
dark indeed.” 

“ But papa says you are going over with us,” said 
Maud. “He says you need rest, and he’s going to 
get it for you. You won’t spoil all our plans, will 
you ? Say you won’t, please.” 

Hardy said nothing. He loved the girl devotedly, 
but he loved her honorably. He would have given 
ten years of his life to feel that he had the right to woo 
her, but he feared it would not be fair towards the 
parents who trusted him. 

“Well, I declare, Mr. Hardy,” said Maud, “you are 
as sober as a judge. Why don’t you answer me ? ” 


272 


JOHN AND MAUD. 


“ Really, I cannot. 1 don’t know that I can get 
leave of absence, and besides, I — ” 

“ You what ? I believe my soul there’s something 
romantic in all this. It isn’t pretty Mary Miller, is it ? ” 

And Maud laughed merrily as she asked the ques- 
tion. 

“ Come, come, Mr. Hardy, I’ll tell papa if you don’t 
entertain me. Is there a lady in the case ? ” 

“Yes, a dear sweet lady, the dearest, and sweetest 
in the world.” 

“ And won’t she let you go to Europe ? ” 

• Hardy looked at her. 

He loved her, and he hoped she knew it, although 
he had never said it. 

He was sitting at her side, but back so that he 
neither saw the audience, nor could be seen by it. 

Maud turned toward Hardy and he, impulsive in 
spite of his caution, took her hand firmly in his and 
with an earnestness too marked to be trifled with 
said : “ Maud, you are that lady. For you I have 
perilled life, but it was as nothing. I have loved you 
since we met. I hated and pursued that scoundrel 
because he was playing with your love. I began to 
take a deep interest in serving your father, because I 
loved you, though in the service I grew to love him. 
To please you is my ambition, to win you would be a 
reward of which at least I have a right to think, if not 
to hope for. You are dearer to me than life. Your 


JOHN AND MAUD. 


2 7 3 

love I would prize above all earthly blessings. Am I 
rash in telling you this ? Do I offend ? I would not 
have spoken had I counselled of my pride, but asking 
Love, I dared to speak. May I have hope?” 

Maud’s color came and died away. She knew that 
Hardy’s manliness was as honest and trustworthy as 
that of her father. 

She respected, esteemed, admired him, but did she 
love him ? 

She allowed her hand to remain in his for a moment. 

Then smiling sweetly she withdrew it, and said : 
“Thank you, Mr. Hardy. I thank you. You have 
neither annoyed nor offended me. I will tell you 
more when we leave this place.” 

“ But may I hope ?” 

“ Yes, hope. ” 

“ I will speak to your father to-morrow. I will tell 
him of my love for you. I will beg him to lay aside 
his prejudice. I will — ” 

“Will you go home with us ? ” 

“ Yes, to the end of the earth.” 

The play proceeded on the stage and when the cur- 
tain fell on the final scene, so near as we can judge, 
the dramatic unities both in front and behind the 
footlights were in a remarkable state of harmony. 

Maud and Hardy walked slowly back to the hotel 
— he an accepted lover, she a hopeful, happy girl. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AT LAST. AT LAST. 

HE next morning Hardy was up bright and 
early, at peace with himself and all the 
world. 

He was in love with Maud, and she with him. 

What more could man desire ? 

What more ? 

Oh, that it was that made him ponder the past, con- 
sider the present and forecast the future. 

In the past he saw the son of a scavenger. 

In the present he beheld a detective police officer. 

And in the future — what ? 

Would Mr. Russell, rich, influential, stern and 
proud, give the hand of his daughter to a man whose 
hundreds of dollars numbered less than his own scores 
of thousands ? 

And Mrs. Russell, kind and indulgent as she always 
was, would it be possible to induce her to so great a 
sacrifice ? 

These and kindred questions sobered his elated 





AT LAST. 


275 

heart and toned down his buoyant spirit, until appre- 
hension took the place of peace, and doubt reigned 
supreme in the young man’s mind. 

He had no fe^ir as to Maud. 

Before he parted from her at the hotel she had 
given him ample assurance of her love, and together 
they had planned that the best way to approach Mr. 
Russell was through his wife. 

That Maud undertook to do. 

The dear girl knew that her mother’s heart was 
bound up in her happiness, and that once a party to 
her daughter’s project, nothing could turn or swerve 
her from her purpose. 

Hardy lived in lodgings and took his meals at an 
adjacent restaurant. On this occasion he breakfast- 
ed unusually early, so that when old Miller was 
brought to his rooms he would be sure to be at home. 

Having read the papers, Hardy naturally thought 
about Maud. 

And that led him to think of his mother and of a 
picture he had of her, which he had promised to show 
to Maud. 

He tobk the fading daguerreotype from its place on 
the mantel, and looked long and lovingly at the seamed 
and wrinkled face disclosed. It was not a handsome 
face, but it was his mother’s. How well he remem- 
bered her kind care and thoughtful ways. She was 
always very fond of him, and shared her husband’s 


A T LAST. 


276 

pride in all his progress at school. And when he 
grew tall and manly, and began to bring home the 
fruits of his industry, her old eyes often filled with tears 
of gratitude, and her trembling lips uttered many pray- 
ers of thanks that the boy of her love was not like the 
rude and reckless companions of his age. 

Her old-fashioned, nail-studded, hair-covered trunk 
stood in one corner of Hardy’s room. 

Years ago he had opened it once and saw bundles 
and books, and papers and letters, none of which he 
looked at. 

Miller had not yet arrived, and the thought oc- 
curred to Hardy that this was a good time for 
him to empty the trunk, examine its contents, 
throw away the useless matter, and rearrange the 
rest. 

Suiting the action to the thought, he hauled the 
trunk from its corner, opened it, and turned its con- 
tents on the bed. 

As he did so, a knock was heard at the door, 

“ Come in,” said Hardy. 

“ All right,” said a voice, and in walked “ One-eyed 
Miller.” 

“ They were going to send a 1 cop ’ round with me,” 
said he ; “ but when they told me the way, I found 
it myself ; and here .1 am, as straight as a ruler, but I 
wMit a pipe.” 

“ I am glad to see you, Miller,” said Hardy ; “ you 


AT LAST. 


277 

were seedy enough yesterday. Why, how nice you 
look. Been to a barber’s ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Miller, as he puffed fast and strong. 
“ Yes, I wanted to see the old man and make it all 
right. I don’t worry much about my conscience, you 
know, but Mary and Martha have been at me about 
it, till it seemed as if there was a little hell inside of 
me. I can’t find that infernal scoundrel of a Temple- 
ton, with his black eye and curly hair. I’d Temple- 
ton him so quick, he wouldn’t know which end he 
stood on if I had a chance at him. What are you do- 
ing with that kit of papers ? Heavens, what a lot of 
letters ! I hate letters. That is, all but the girls’ let- 
ters. Every letter my girls ever wrote to me, I’ve 
got, and some of them are very good, I tell you.” 

If Miller had blustered, Hardy would have met 
him. 

If he had commenced to He, Hardy would have 
humored him. 

As it was, Miller was fast making a conquest. 
Hardy knew enough of Miller’s daughters to convince 
him that, prior to Templeton’s advent, tjieir home was 
happy and they contented. And he now knew that 
in some way Templeton had not only endeavored to 
deceive and practice fraud on Mr. Russell, but had 
done, through Mary, a great wrong to old Miller 
himself. 

Sitting on the edgj of the bed, while Miller took a 


278 AT LAST. 

chair, Hardy said : “ Miller, if I had gone into this 
job for money, and had been successful, I would have 
made a fortune. As it is, if my own interest was all 
I thought of, I might haul in a very big pile. You 
know enough of men in general, and of Mr. Russell 
especially, to see that. And you have done enough 
business with me to know that I am a man who deals 
on the square, and tells the truth. I not only haven’t 
made a dollar out of this, but I don’t intend to. Mr. 
Russell was not sanguine at the first, and to do him 
justice, he always agreed with me that the Bob 
Delaney -boy was much more likely to be Bob 
Delaney than Harry Russell. Still, the search has 
done the old man a benefit ; it has relieved his mind. 
He has done all he could, and that’s all any man can 
be asked to do. I had a chance to go in with Tem- 
pleton ; the same you had. I didn’t bluff him at first, 
I let him go on, and if I hadn’t found him at the 
Tombs, trying to honeyfugle mother Foster, I think 
I should have given him just rope enough to hang 
himself with. Then he tried it on you, and I make 
no bones of telling you, you played a deucedly dirty 
trick on one of the best men living. And besides — 
but, never mind, we won’t go into that.” 

“ No,” said Miller. “ You’re right ; it was a mean 
game, but let bygones be bygones, I’m willing.” 

Hardy laughed, and went on : 

“ Of course you are. Now, you have done the 


AT LAST. 


279 


square thing by us because you had to, and you must 
admit that you’ve only done it as far as you were 
forced to; don’t you think you would do a better 
thing if you were to tell me the whole plot from end 
to end ? It won’t harm you ; it may lead to the pun- 
ishment of Templeton.” 

As Hardy finished the sentence, he rose from the 
bed on which he was sitting, intending to lower a cur- 
tain, so as to shut out the sun, which shone directly 
in his face. As he did so, his foot tripped on the top 
of the trunk as it lay on the floor, and to save him- 
self he caught quickly at the coverlid of the bed. 
This disarranged the bundles and papers, some of 
which were thrown upon the floor. 

Miller assisted Hardy in picking them up, and as 
he did so, said : “ Hallo, Hardy, what’s this ? Here’s a 
bundle all tied up and sealed up as if it was a mummy. 
I declare, I haven’t seen so much sealing wax since 
I was a boy. Seems to me you’re not over careful 
of your jewelry.” 

Miller pitched the package to Hardy, who was 
about to place it with the rest, when he saw in his 
mother’s cramped and awkward hand, his own name, 
written on the paper. 

The bundle was soft, and apparently contained 
clothing. 

Miller eyed him curiously. 

“ Why don’t you open it ? ” said he. 


280 


AT LAST . . 


Hardy said nothing, but felt of the package from 
end to end. 

Then taking his knife from his pocket, he cut the 
strings. 

Inside the paper was a roll of clothing, and a letter 
addressed 

“ John Hardy, 

“ New York. 

“ If dead, destroy this.” 

Hardy was astounded. 

For years that trunk had been under his very eye. 

He had opened it but twice since it came in his 
possession. 

Its contents he had never looked at nor cared for, 
although he had now and then thought he would at 
some time clean out the rubbish, and preserve what- 
ever was worth keeping. 

Yet in that trunk was a letter from the dearest 
mother man ever had. 

He loved her living, and he loved her dead. 

She had been so much to him that he never thought 
of her without a smile or a tear ; and yet for years 
within reach of his hand had been this letter. 

“ Why, Miller,” said he, “ this is mother’s. This 
letter’s from mother W r hat can it be ? Why have I 
never seen it before ? I want to read it, yet I do 
not. Here, you read it. No, give it to me. What an 
idea ! Bless her heart ! That’s her picture, Miller. 


AT LAST. 


281 


Bless her heart ! She was just the best mother boy 
or man ever had. I’ll read the letter.” 

Forgetting Miller and all else besides, Hardy open- 
ed the carefully sealed envelope, and read aloud as 
follows : 

“ My own Dear Jack — 

“ God grant you may never see these lines. Your 
mother loves you, Jacky, my boy; loves you, loves 
you. I am going to write something because I ought 
to, and not because I want to. I am getting old, and 
it won’t be long before I go to meet him you used to 
call your daddy? My conscience is heavy, Jacky. 
My conscience makes me do this. I don’t write it 
for you, I only write it because my conscience makes 
me. Don’t think your old mother doesn’t love you, 
boy. Don’t think your daddy didn’t. You know we 
did, and this minute, Jacky, you are sleeping where I 
hear you breathe; and this minute I kissed your fore- 
head as you slept. Jacky, you are not my son. Don’t 
be angry, dear. You are my own dear boy all the 
same, and I love you just the same. But you are not 
my son. We had a little fellow, too sweet to stay 
here long; and one day, these many, many years ago, 
your father brought you home. ‘ Here, dear,’ said he, 
1 I’ve found another for you,’ and you came right in 
my heart at once. He found you in the sewer, dear. 
He was out with his bag, and as he looked in the 


282 


AT LAST. 


great hole at the foot of the City Hall Park, he heard 
a cry. He was a good man. He got you out. He 
brought you home. You cried for ‘mamma/ and you 
called for ‘ papa/ but you were young, Jacky, dear, and 
such a pretty boy, I could not let you go. Next day, 
dear, we dressed you in our little Jacky’s clothes, 
and tried to coax and question you. But it was all 
‘ mamma ’ and ‘ papa ’ with you. Your clothes were 
spoiled, and you were sick. You only kept up a few 
hours, when fever set in. The doctor gave no hope, 
but I nursed you through, my boy, and in about a 
month you sat up straight in bed, for all the world 
like a beautiful star. But you knew nothing. We » 
tried very hard, but could get nothing from you. I 
was sorry and glad. I wanted to keep you. W e called 
you after my dead darling, and I hugged you in my 
arms for him. That’s all, Jack, my boy. Let me 
call you Jack, my son. I shall do these clothes up 
in a bundle, and put this letter with ’em. You won’t 
be likely to see it, Jack. If you don’t, I shall be 
thankful. If you do, my boy, remember how your 
daddy loved you, and how your mother loves you, and 
forgive us if we have done wrong. Heaven preserve 
and protect you, Jack, my boy, my son, my darling. 

“ Mother.” 

“ Forgive you ? ” said Hardy. “ Forgive you ? ” 
Bless you, God bless you, you dear, honest, loving 


AT LAST. 283 

mother ; ” and he kissed the picture again and 
again . 

“ But who, then, am I ? ” said he. “ Let’s look at 
the clothes.” 

Nothing. 

There was a little jacket with buttons all over it, 
and a jolly little pair of trowserswith a pocket on one 
side, and a make-believe pocket on the other. 

But no mark of any kind. 

Hardy’s face was red with excitement. 

Miller puffed quietly on. 

A rap at the door, followed by Hardy’s “ come in,” 
disclosed Mr. Russell, who looked at the two men 
and the disordered apartment in undisguised astonish- 
ment. 

“Ah, come in, Mr. Russell, come in,” said Hardy. 
“ Excuse my lack of ceremony, and my excess of con- 
fusion. It doesn’t look like me, 'I confess ; but inas- 
much as I don’t know who I am, it matters very little. 
Sit down, please.” 

Mr. Russell was so taken aback by this unusual re- 
ception, that he hardly knew what to do. 

He had always found Hardy respectful and con- 
siderate ; now he found him brusque, and almost rude. 

He looked at him closely, and seeing tears in the 
young man’s eyes, pushed away the chair Miller had 
offered him, and laying his hand on Hardy’s shoulder, 
said, as a father might to a son whom he loved : “ Tell 


284 


AT LAST. 


me, Hardy, what troubles you. Surely, 1 have the 
right to ask, and you know, my boy, that you have no 
right to conceal aught from me. Has Miller annoyed 
you ? ” 

Miller looked up quickly, and said : “ Mr. Russell, 
Mr. Hardy is your agent. We have buried the past 
between us. I have confessed my fault, and the truce 
is declared. I now ask your pardon, sir, and as I do 
so, let me couple my petition with a declaration of 
regard and esteem for this young man, for whom I 
would do anything in my power. No, sir, Miller has 
not annoyed him, but Miller will help him, and on 
that you may bet your bottom dollar.” 

Miller spoke slowly as was his habit, but he also 
spoke earnestly, and there was something so tender in 
his manner and expression, that Mr. Russell, whose 
heart was big and generous, extended his hand, and 
with a cordial grasp, said : “As you say, Mr. Miller ; 
as you say. Bygones shall be bygones. Now 
tell me what under the sun is the matter with John 
Hardy ? ” 

“Read this letter, sir,” said Hardy ; “ that will tell 
you. I have lost my mother, sir ; and my dear old 
father, too, who used to be so proud of his boy, is 
mine no longer. Oh, why did I open that infernal 
trunk ? ” 

Mr. Russell read the letter through before he spoke. 

Then wiping his eyes, he turned to Hardy and said : 


AT LAST. 


285 

“ Well, Hardy, this is rather rough. I know what it 
is to lose father and mother, by death. But I confess 
this is a touch beyond that. But those clothes. Is 
there nothing on them to indicate a clue ? ” 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” replied Hardy. 

“Nothing but this,” cried Miller, who had been 
turning the suit over and over ; “ nothing but this — .” 

Mr. Russell literally snatched the little jacket from 
the old man’s hands. 

On the loop, placed there for convenience of hang- 
ing the garment on a hook or nail, was a small sales 
ticket, on which was printed 

“Hall, Milwaukee.” 

He could scarce believe his eyes. 

“ Hall, Milwaukee,” cried he. “ It cannot be. Oh, 
Hardy, speak, Miller, speak ! Great heavens, can* 
this be so ! Hardy, Hardy, you are my son.! I 
bought this suit myself. You wore it to New York 
when you were lost. Hardy ! Hardy ! For God’s 
sake, help me, Miller. His foot ! His foot ! ” 

Quicker than a flash, old Miller pushed the half 
stupefied Hardy to a seat, drew off his gaiter, pulled 
off his sock — But no, they were all there ! 

“ The other, man ; the other. I told you the other,” 
shouted Mr. Russell. 

And there, sure enough, was the mutilated foot, 


286 


AT LAST. 


kissed by the father, shook by old Miller, and kissed 
and shook again, until in an ecstasy of joy, a perfect 
whirlwind of conflicting emotions, father and son held 
each other tight in a long and loving embrace. 

Miller scratched his head. 

“And now for home,” said Mr. Russell; “how 
Maud’s eyes will open, how — ” 

Maud ! 

Great heavens ! Hardy had not thought of 
that, and burying his head in his pillow, he sobbed 
aloud. 

Miller beckoned Mr. Russell to the window. 

Placing his pipe on the sill, he took the astonished 
father by the hand. 

“ Mr. Russell, this is a matter of life or death, and 
you can alone decide it. Your son loves your 
daughter. He has found a father, but he loses a wife.” 

“ Nonsense. Not at all, sir ; not at all. Hardy, 
old fellow. Harry, my darling, look up ! Dress your- 
self, and come with me. Your mother will want to 
see you. Aye, my boy, and your sweetheart will want 
to be the first to congratulate us both.” 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” said Hardy. 

“ What do I mean ? Great Heaven, what do I not 
mean ? Maud is not my child. Maud is not your 
sister. Her mother brought the dear girl with her 
when we were married. You shall wear her as you 
have won her, my son. Now, will you come ? ” 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

there’s no place like home. 

HREE weeks from that happy day a jolly 
party stood upon the deck of an outward- 
bound steamer, and Horace Russell was 
crying" like a child. 

Perhaps you think a strong man should not cry. 

Well, let us see. 

Just beyond him was a group, laughing, crying, 
shaking hands, and kissing : 

Old Miller and Mary, Robert Delaney and Martha, 
John Hardy, or as he was then, Harry Russell, and 
Maud, his bride, with Mrs. Russell at their side. 

Mr. Delaney and Martha were part of the travelling 
company, and Miller, with Mary, had come to bid 
them good-by. 

Mr. Russell had arranged it all. 

He had sent a check for $1,500 to the trustees of 
Mr. Delaney’s church, with which to supply the pul- 
pit for a year, and the young couple gladly availed 
themselves of the cordial invitation of their friend to 
pass that year abroad. 





288 


NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 


Maud had told her mother of Hardy’s declaration, 
and they were discussing it, when Mr. Russell and 
his new found Harry made their appearance and dis- 
closure. 

Words cannot describe the scene that followed. 

Suffice it that the lovers were married by the Rev. 
Robert Delaney, and that at the wedding breakfast 
the entire Miller family were honored guests. 

“ Home again,” was now the cry of Horace Rus- 
sell. " 

His affairs needed him ? 

Yes, but it was not for that he hurried. 

He had found his son. 

Twenty years’ lost time must be made up. 

The sooner he began the better. 

With wife and son, and daughter, he craved his 
native air. He longed to present his boy, his son and 
hqir to his workmen and his friends. 

The future beckoned him with wide ambitions, in 
all of which John Hardy — Harry Russell — was an 
element. 

How happy he was ! 

How happy they all were ! 

No wonder that the strong man wept. 


THE END. 

















